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TOOLS 


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STOW? 
lC  JtYKA 
r  n Mr/2   R  jr  i  OHt    ISA  L 


THE  BCOK  A'00/f 
WS-ieu-kSL 
RIVERSIDE. 


WITH  EDGE  TOOLS. 


WITH   EDGE  TOOLS 


BY 


HOBART  CHATFIELD  TAYLOR 


CHICAGO 

A.  C.  McCLURG  AND  COMPANY 
1891 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


COPYRIGHT, 
BY  A.  C.  MCCLURG  AND  Co. 

A.  D.   1891. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

I.  THE  STATEN  CLUB,         ...          7 

II.  CROSS  FIRE,         .        .        .        .            22 

III.  Two  WOMEN,  ....        39 

IV.  IN  AN  OPERA  Box,     ...  59 
V.  A  CHALLENGE,        ....        80 

VI.  SPANISH  CASTLES,       ...            97 

VII.  THE  PATRICIANS,    .         .         .         .120 

VIII.  GATHERING  CLOUDS,           .         .          143 

IX.     OAKHURST, 165 

X.  "I  WILL  LAUGH,  Too,"     .         .          188 

XI.  UNDER  THE  WILLOWS,   .         .         .      208 

XII.     UNREST, 227 

XIII.  DERBY  DAY, 246 

XIV.  DANGER, 268 

XV.  A  GAME  OF  SKILL,         .         .         .281 

XVI.  IN  THE  LIBRARY,        .         .         .          308 


WITH   EDGE  TOOLS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    STATEN    CLUB. 

In  the  world  of  clubs  the  "  Staten  "  held  its 
head  proudly.  It  was  asocial  union  comprising 
the  most  exclusive  men  of  family  and  fashion. 
Though  its  outward  walls  differed  little  from 
those  of  other  clubs  which  lined  the  avenue,  its 
muster-roll  was  sacredly  guarded  by  the  gov 
ernors,  and  posted  at  the  hall  desk  was  a  long 
list  of  waiting  aspirants,  each  to  undergo  in  his 
turn  the  scrutiny  of  the  committee-room,  where 
all  antecedents  must  be  known  and  approved 
before  his  card  could  bear  "Staten  Club"  in 
the  left-hand,  lower  corner.  Other  club  build 
ings  there  were,  in  New  York,  of  greater 
stateliness,  with  marble  walls  and  galleries,  and 
well  filled  libraries,  but  the  "  Staten "  cared 
for  none  of  these,  and  proudly  pointed  to  its 
members'  list,  where  were  inscribed  five  hun 
dred  names  which  no  other  club  could  ever 


8  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

hope  to  equal.  Three  rooms,  the  restaurant, 
cafe,  and  billiard  room,  received  their  share  of 
patronage,  while  the  lounging  room,  upon  the 
avenue,  where  a  few  papers  were  kept  for 
respectability's  sake,  and  others  for  use,  was 
the  daily  haunt  of  some  of  the  choicest  spirits. 
In  the  early  days  of  the  club's  history,  to  be 
sure,  a  thoughtless  governor  had  inspired  the 
foundation  of  a  library.  A  room  upstairs 
somewhere  (few  of  the  members  knew  where) 
was  selected,  and  into  this  were  placed  a  set 
of  Dickens,  the  "Britannica,"  an  atlas,  a  history 
or  two,  a  dictionary,  and  perhaps  a  hundred 
other  books,  which  together  formed  the  nu 
cleus  of  a  store  of  knowledge.  But  no  one  went 
there  except  Simkins,  Rynder  and  McLaughlin. 
They  were  a  queer  lot;  none  of  the  men  could 
make  them  out;  it  was  their  families  that  got 
them  elected,  and  they  never  seemed  to  have 
anything  better  to  do  than  cuddle  over  musty 
books.  But  the  choice  clique  were  those 
whose  names  were  most  often  signed  to  the 
wine-room  tickets.  It  was  they  who  ran  the 
club  and  made  it  the  popular  place  it  was. 

On  a  particular  January  afternoon,  of  a  year 
not  long  since  passed,  one  of  the  broad,  front 


THE  STATEN  CLUB.  9 

windows  of  the  lounging  room  was  occupied 
by  three  intimates  of  "the  set."  There  was 
Rennsler  Van  Vort,  whose  ancestor  had  been  a 
red-faced  burgher  at  the  time  when  old  Peter 
Stuyvesant  rigorously  ruled  New  Amsterdam. 
His  fortune  was  his  name,  for  the  family  was 
too  old  to  be  wealthy  and  too  proud  to  be  in 
trade;  yet  he  never  lacked  a  berth  on  a  yacht 
or  a  room  in  a  country  house,  and  wherever  he 
went,  he  brought  a  collection  of  rare  tales  and 
a  song  or  two  which  made  him  the  friend  of 
all.  Like  his  burgher  ancestor  he  had  a  red, 
round  face  and  was  bald,  but  behind  his  glasses 
there  were  two  queer,  little  eyes  which  shone 
with  kindly  humor,  and  from  lips  half  hidden 
by  stubby  black  hairs,  bright,  timely  words 
were  sure  to  come.  Rennsler  was  the  senior 
by  several  years  of  his  companions,  and,  if 
the  truth  were  known,  he  probably  cared  little 
for  them,  but  Roland  Waterman  owned  the 
"Phrygia,"  and  Clifford  Howard-Jones  was  a 
coaching  man  with  a  shooting  box  and  other 
convenient  accessories. 

It  had  been  snowing  in  the  morning,  but  the 
sun  had  turned  the  snow  to  slush,  and  the  three 
men,  for  lack  of  more  exciting  sport,  were 


10  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

watching  the  omnibus  horses  slide  and  struggle 
down  Murray  Hill,  and  the  pedestrians  splash 
and  spatter  in  their  vain  efforts  to  dodge  the 
cabs  and  reach  the  curbs  with  unsoiled  feet. 
If  the  unfortunate  wayfarer  happened  to  be  a 
woman,  and  a  pretty  one  at  that,  the  three 
friends  would  smirk  and  nudge  each  other,  as 
the  little  feet  tripped  daintily  from  puddle  to 
puddle,  or  splashed  her  white  skirts  with  great 
mud  blotches,  while  the  owner  folded  them 
about  her  and  pattered  rapidly  on  her  heels, 
foolishly  fancying  the  more  speed  the  less  mud. 
An  occasional  witticism  from  Rennsler's  lips 
would  heighten  the  grotesqueness  of  a  luckless 
passer's  struggles.  The  other  two  would  laugh 
and  Howard-Jones  would  add  some  strained 
gibe,  with  the  flat  effect  that  forced  wit  always 
has.  Perhaps  half  an  hour  was  thus  passed, 
when  Howard-Jones  spied  a  woman  leaving 
a  house  in  a  side  street.  A  carriage  was  wait 
ing  at  the  curb,  and  a  footman  was  vainly  en 
deavoring  to  protect  her  feathers  from  the 
rain;  but  forgetting  the  servant  and  his  um 
brella,  she  gathered  her  skirts  up  frantically 
and  rushed  from  the  bottom  step  to  the  car 
riage  door,  which,  of  course  being  closed,  left 


THE    STATEN  CLUB.  11 

her  no  alternative  but  to  stand  patiently  in  the 
drenching  rain  until  the  marked  precision  of 
the  footman's  steps  brought  relief  and  the 
umbrella. 

"Look  at  that  action!"  shouted  Howard- 
Jones.  "Great  for  park  work  but  too  high  for 
the  open.  Easy,  my  beauty,  or  you  will  come 
a  cropper  at  the  curb.  By  Jove,  fellows,  it  is 
Mrs.  Harry  Osgood." 

"So  it  is,"  replied  Waterman.  "I  wonder 
what  she  is  mousing  about  that  street  after? 
She  must  be  searching  for  her  Duncan.  Dear 
girl,  how  pathetically  lonesome  she  looked  at 
Sherry's  last  night  when  Grahame  left  her  to 
dance  with  Mrs.  Rossy  Platt." 

This  remark  was  hailed  by  Howard-Jones 
with  the  world-wise  chuckle  with  which  a 
man  of  narrow  sympathy  and  ill-spent  life  in 
variably  receives  a  pointed  insinuation  against 
a  woman's  character.  Broad  sentiments  and 
heroic  impulses  are  seldom  nursed  in  clubs, 
and  Howard-Jones  had  learned  his  ethics 
within  the  limits  of  the  world  in  which  he 
moved. 

"If  I  were  Osgood,  I  would  go  gunning 
for  Grahame,"  he  retorted.  "A  rounder  like 


12  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS 

Duncan   never   hovers   about   a   bird    so  long 
for  nothing." 

"He  had  far  better  give  up  dogs  and  horses 
and  bestow  a  little  attention  on  his  wife,' 
Rennsler  Van  Vort  replied.  He  had  the  per 
suasive  sympathy,  possessed  by  few  men,  which 
told  him  that  a  woman's  heart,  though  easily- 
won  by  flattery  may  be  as  easily  lost  by  neg 
lect.  The  lack  of  fortune  had  brought  him 
into  contact  with  the  petty  meanness  of  life 
and  if  he  had  made  friends  whose  hospitality 
helped  out  his  meagre  purse,  he  knew  that 
without  his  postprandial  accomplishments  and 
unquestioned  ancestry  few  boards  would  have 
a  place  for  him.  He  did  not  imagine  that  a 
moral  truism  would  deeply  affect  his  compan 
ions,  but  his  broad  instincts  prompted  him  to 
add  that  "when  a  married  woman  goes  astray 
it  is  usually  the  fault  of  her  mother  or  her 
husband  " 

"Nonsense,  old  chap,"  retorted  Howard- 
Jones.  "Mrs.  Osgood  is  a  pretty  woman,  and 
a  pretty  woman  must  have  admiration.  Dun 
can  used  to  admire  her,  but  Osgood  had  the 
money  and  she  married  him.  Duncan  Gra- 
hame  keeps  right  on  admiring  her  and  Osgood 
doesn't,  so  there  you  are." 


THE    STATEN  CLUB.  13 

The  argument  thus  incited  might  have  been 
continued  were  it  not  for  the  interruption 
caused  by  the  familiar  voice  of  a  man,  who 
had  just  entered,  hailing  the  group  at  the 
window  with  the  somewhat  pithy  expression: 
"What  are  you  sportsmen  doing  there?  Star 
ing  at  nothing,  I'll  wager,  and  I  don't  believe 
you  have  had  one  drink  between  you  for  a 
week." 

The  men  at  the  window  turned,  and  were 
startled  to  see  standing  in  the  door  the  man  of 
whom  they  were  speaking,  Duncan  Grahame. 
His  clothes  showed  that  he  had  just  come 
from  the  city.  His  trousers  were  turned  up 
and  muddy,  and  his  hat  was  sprinkled  with 
rain.  The  merry  familiarity  of  his  expres 
sion  told,  however,  that  he  had  not  heard  the 
remark  just  made,  but  Howard-Jones,  a  trifle 
abashed  at  rinding  one  of  the  objects  of  his 
insinuations  appear  so  inopportunely,  and  feel 
ing  that  something  had  better  be  said  to  re 
move  the  embarrassment,  took  it  upon  himself 
to  reply.  "I  don't  believe  we  have,  but  you 
are  just  in  time  to  stir  us  up.  Rennsler  has 
been  preaching  and  we  are  awfully  dry;  just 
punch  that  bell,  won't  you." 


14  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

The  appearance  of  the  servant  caused  the 
four  friends  to  draw  as  many  chairs  about  a 
small  cherry  wood  table,  supplied  with  the 
usual  complement  of  bell,  match-box  and  ash 
tray,  and  as  the  servant  put  the  familiar  ques 
tion — "What  is  the  order,  sir?"  it  was  followed 
by  the  habitual  meditative  silence.  Grahame 
threw  himself  back  in  his  chair  and  pushed 
his  hat  back,  doubtfully.  "I  have  got  a  Sa 
hara  thirst,"  he  finally  said,  "so  I  suppose  it 
will  have  to  be  a  long  drink.  Bring  me  a 
whiskey  and  soda." 

"Split  the  soda  with  me,  won't  you  ?"  inter 
jected  Howard-Jones. 

"Couldn't  think  of  it,  my  love,"  Grahame 
replied;  "I  have  not  had  a  drink  to-day.  Went 
to  lunch  with  the  senior  partner  and  he  ordered 
nothing  more  stimulating  than  unfiltered  Cro- 
ton.  He  took  me  out  to  talk  business,  and  I 
nearly  expired  under  the  strain."  Howard- 
Jones  finally  decided  to  indulge  in  a  whole 
bottle  of  Delatour,  but  when  Rennsler  Van 
Vort  quietly  told  the  servant  he  would  take  an 
Apollinaris  lemonade  without  sugar,  it  was  too 
much  for  the  dashing  Duncan.  "When  do  you 
take  orders,  old  man  ?"  he  said.  "All  you  need 


THE   STATEN  CLUB.  15 

is  a  cowl  and  sandals,  for  nature  has  kindly 
tonsured  your  locks  for  you.  I  suppose  you 
will  sodn  be  leading  the  singing  at  noon  prayer 
meetings." 

"I  am  off  my  liquor,"  Van  Vort  replied;  "but 
if  I  do  come  to  noon  meetings  I  feel  sure  I'll 
do  better  with  Sankey  hymns  than  I  do  now 
with  comic  ditties." 

"Don't  start  Rennsler  preaching,"  Howard- 
Jones  interjected,  "he's  primed  with  moral  bosh 
and  the  atmosphere  is  too  depressed  already. 
What  brings  a  hard-working  man  like  you 
uptown  at  four  o'clock?  I  thought  you  didn't 
knock  off  until  five." 

"I  don't,"  Duncan  replied,  "but  I  am  going 
out  to  Chicago  to-morrow  and  I  am  taking  a 
half  holiday  to  prepare  my  nerves  for  the 
strain." 

"Going  to  Chicago,"  the  three  interposed 
almost  in  a  breath. 

"Yes,  and,  worse  luck,  I  don't  know  when  I 
shall  get  back.  I  am  going  out  for  an  English 
syndicate  we  have  in  tow.  The  Britons  have 
bought  all  the  breweries  and  stock-yards  out 
there,  and  now  they  are  after  elevators." 

"  'Elevators',  exclaimed  Waterman,  "I  should 


16  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

think  they  do  need  a  few  in  London;  those 
beastly  'lifts'  they  have  in  the  hotels  there 
are  about  the  only  British  institution  I  don't 
admire.  But  what  have  you  got  to  do  with 
elevators?" 

"Don't  be  an  ass,  Roland,"  Duncan  replied. 
"It  is  about  time  you  knew  that  the  chief 
industry  of  'the  city  of  the  future',  as  some  fool 
journalist  calls  Chicago, — pork  of  course  ex- 
cepted, — is  grain,  and  elevators  are  the  ware 
houses  where  it  is  stored.  I  am  going  out  to 
work  a  scheme  to  buy  them  all  up,  make  a 
trust,  and  sell  the  stock  in  London.  Our  house 
are  the  middlemen  between  Chicago  and  the 
Britons.  Now  do  you  see?" 

"Well,  I'm  deuced  glad  I  didn't  go  into  Wall 
Street,"  Roland  replied.  "I  shouldn't  care  to 
be  shut  up  in  that  beastly  hole,  Chicago.  I 
don't  believe  there  is  a  sportsman  in  the  place. 
I  stopped  there  a  day  once  on  my  way  to 
Minnesota,  grouse  shooting,  and  I  never  saw 
such  a  rum  place.  I  put  up  at  the  biggest 
hotel  in  the  town,  and  there  wasn't  much  to 
complain  of  in  the  size  of  it;  but  the  dirt  and 
the  niggers  were  too  much  for  me.  I  had  to 
eat  dinner  at  two  o'clock  and  I  wish  you  could 


THE    STATEN   CLUB.  17 

have  seen  how  they  managed  it.  I  was  met  at 
the  door  by  a  six-foot  black  man  in  a  waistcoat 
that  was  perhaps  white  in  the  year  one,  and  a 
coat  made  in  the  days  of  Henry  Clay.  He 
waltzed  us  down  the  room  with  the  airs  of  a 
drum  major  and  put  us  at  a  table  with  a  drum 
mer  and  a  cow-boy.  There  we  were  given  in 
charge  of  another  colored  gentleman  who  pol 
ished  off  the  plates  with  a  greasy  towel,  and 
placed  big  tumblers  of  iced  water  at  each  place. 
He  took  our  orders  and  brought  us  the  soup  in 
fairly  good  shape,  except  that  his  black  fingers 
got  into  all  the  plates;  but  you  ought  to  have 
seen  the  rest  of  the  dinner.  He  started  from 
the  kitchen  at  a  record-breaking  pace,  spinning 
a  tray  on  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand.  He 
galloped  past  us  and  deposited  his  implements 
on  a  side  table,  then  he  commenced  to  sling 
canary  birds'  bath  tubs,  filled  with  heaven 
knows  what,  across  the  table  like  poker  chips, 
until  we  had  a  perfect  collection  of  samples  of 
the  most  villainously  cooked  truck  I  ever  tasted. 
I  tried  to  make  out  a  'feed',  but  I  gave  it  up 
when  the  black  gentleman  appeared  with  all 
sorts  of  pie,  floating  island,  ice  cream  and  jelly. 
I  then  fled  in  despair  and  went  out  for  a  walk, 


18  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

but  I  didn't  find  anything  but  mud,  smoke,  and 
cable  cars.  I  tell  you,  Duncan,  old  man,  you 
don't  know  what  Chicago  is,  or  you  wouldn't 
look  so  beautifully  unconcerned." 

A  burst  of  laughter  greeted  Waterman's 
recital  of  his  pathetic  experience,  and  then 
Duncan,  who  little  relished  his  coming  exile, 
mournfully  asked  if  any  of  the  fellows  knew 
some  people  of  the  right  sort  in  the  place. 

"No  one  but  a  charming  creature  of  the 
vintage  of  forty-nine  whom  I  saw  at  the  Pier 
last  summer,"  retorted  Howard-Jones.  "She 
must  ride  sixteen  stone,  but  she  canters  about 
like  a  yearling  and  plasters  her  hair  all  over 
her  face  in  little  curlycues,  to  say  nothing  of 
her  voice,  which  used  to  run  an  effective  op 
position  to  the  steam  horn  at  the  lighthouse. 
But  speaking  of  lighthouses,  you  should  have 
seen  her  diamond  earrings;  the  light  on  Point 
Judith  wasn't  a  circumstance  to  them.  When 
the  heat  was  too  much  for  her,  she  used  to  mop 
her  face  with  a  piece  of  chamois  and  puff  like  a 
crippled  hunter.  The  papers  called  her  'the 
beautiful  and  accomplished  leader  of  Chicago 
society.'  I  tell  you,  old  man,  she  is  the  girl  for 
you;  she'll  enliven  your  weary  hours." 


THE   STATEN   CLUB.  19 

Another  laugh  greeted  this  effusion,  but 
Van  Vort  felt  compelled  to  interpose  an  ob 
jection.  "I  don't  believe  any  of  you  fellows 
know  the  first  thing  about  the  West,"  he  said. 
"Your  ideas  are  bounded  by  Bar  Harbor  on 
the  north  and  Washington  on  the  south,  and 
as  for  their  western  limits,  they  don't  extend 
beyond  Orange  County." 

"Come,  old  chap,  you're  getting  into  deep 
water.  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  had  been  in  Chi 
cago?"  objected  Waterman. 

"You  went  out  West  after  chickens,  and  you 
didn't  get  beyond  a  Minnesota  shooting  club. 
As  for  Chicago,  you  admit  that  you  were  there 
on  a  muggy  day  and  didn't  stir  two  squares 
from  an  hotel  which,  I  wager,  wasn't  the  best 
in  the  place.  As  for  the  people,  one  of  the 
best  mannered  women  I  ever  met  came  from 
Chicago." 

"Who  was  she?"  Duncan  interrupted.  "If 
there  is  anybody  decent  in  the  place  I  want  to 
know  her." 

"Her  name  is  Mrs.  Sanderson.  I  met  her  in 
Washington  last  winter.  Her  uncle  was  in  the 
State  Department  and  she  was  visiting  him. 
She  had  a  friend  with  her  who  is  also  from 


20  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

Chicago,  I  think,  and  they  both  of  them  were 
better  read  and  had  less  affectation  than  any 
women  I  have  met  for  a  year,  at  least." 

"That  sounds  encouraging,"  replied  Duncan. 
"  I  think  I  have  .  heard  Sibyl  Wright  talk 
about  that  Mrs.  Sanderson.  If  there  is  any 
sport  in  Chicago  I  am  bound  to  have  it.  My 
old  college  chum,  Harold  Waimvright,  has 
been  living  out  there  for  three  years  and  he 
must  know  the  town  by  this  time." 

"I  say,  Duncan,  won't  you  have  some  more 
liquor?  You  need  it  to  fortify  your  nerves  for 
that  voyage  of  discovery." 

"I  think  you  are  right,  Roland,"  Duncan 
replied.  "By  Jove,  though,  I  don't  believe  I 
have  time;  I  have  got  a  date  before  dinner." 

"Oh,  yes  you  have;  just  one  more  for  luck. 
Here,  waiter,  take  the  orders." 

The  glasses  were  soon  removed  and  freshly 
filled  ones  took  their  place.  "When  are  you 
off?"  said  Waterman. 

"To-morrow  on  the  'Limited'  "  was  the  reply. 

"Then  let's  drink  to  the  great  Duncan  and 
his  success  among  the  pork-packers,"  said 
Howard-Jones. 

The  four  men  quickly  drained  their  glasses 


THE  STA  TEN  CLUB.  21 

and  Duncan  took  a  hurried  leave  of  his  friends. 
"Good-by,  Duncan,  good-by,"  were  the  ex 
changed  partings.  Duncan  hurried  through 
the  hall,  hailed  a  cab  at  the  door,  gave  an 
up-town  address  to  the  driver,  jumped  into 
the  cab,  and  was  off. 


CHAPTER  II. 

CROSS   FIRE. 

Duncan  was  dressing.  It  was  already  five 
minutes  past  the  hour  named  for  dinner  on  his 
invitation,  but  if  Duncan  were  not  late  at  dinner, 
it  would  deprive  the  guests  of  one  stock  topic 
of  conversation,  and  he  had  never  yet  been  so 
inconsiderate.  No  one  waited  for  him,  and 
when  he  finally  appeared  with  some  trumped 
up  excuse,  it  was  greeted  with  a  round  of  laugh 
ter,  and  served  to  enliven  the  naturally  trifling 
entree  conversation;  so  no  one, — least  of  all  the 
hostess, — blamed  him.  One  who  has  been  in 
an  engine  house  when  an  alarm  of  fire  is  turned 
in  can  form  some  idea  of  Duncan's  dressing 
accomplishments.  There  were,  to  be  sure,  no 
clanging  gongs,  stamping  horses,  and  scurry 
ing,  half-dressed  men,  but  there  was  the  same 
instantaneous  assumption  of  perfect  order  out 
of  bewildering  chaos.  His  servant  was  his 
faithful  assistant,  and  when  Duncan's  steps 


CXOSS  FIRE.  23 

were  heard  upon  the  stairs,  he  would  seize  a 
shirt  in  one  hand  and  a  pair  of  trousers  in  the 
other,  which  he  held  waiting  for  the  arrival  of 
his  master.  Duncan  would  make  a  wild  rush 
through  the  door,  and  his  top  coat,  coat  and 
waistcoat  would  fly  across  the  room  at  random, 
while  Parker  pulled  off  one  pair  of  trousers  and 
assisted  him  on  with  another.  A  dive  into  a 
face  bath  would  give  Parker  time  to  change  the 
odds  and  ends  in  Duncan's  pockets;  while  on 
would  go  the  shirt,  and  the  tie  would  be  ad 
justed  and  his  hair  smoothed  while  the  servant 
replaced  the  muddy  boots  with  evening  shoes. 
Coat  and  waistcoat  would  go  on  together,  hat, 
umbrella  and  overcoat  be  seized,  and  off  Dun 
can  would  start  in  the  official  time  of  three 
minutes  and  seventeen  seconds. 

On  the  present  occasion  he  desisted  from  his 
dressing  long  enough  to  read  a  small,  blue  note 
which  he  found  upon  his  dressing  table.  It 
was  worded  as  follows:  "The  coast  is  clear  at 
nine,  and  will  be  so  till  after  midnight.  I  will 
see  you  if  you  come."  There  was  no  signature 
or  address.  It  had  been  left  by  a  maid  in  the 
usual  way,  so  Parker  said,  but  even  unsigned 
and  non-committal  as  it  was,  it  did  not  please 


24  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

Duncan.  "I  wish  I  could  forget  that  woman," 
he  muttered  to  himself.  "But  I  suppose  I  will 
be  there  and  play  the  fool,  just  as  I  always  do. 
I  have  a  mind  to  break  away  from  her,  though." 
Then,  turning  to  Parker,  he  continued  audibly, 
"I  am  going  to  Chicago  to-morrow  morning. 
Have  my  portmanteau  and  shirt  box  packed. 
You  know  about  what  I  want,  but  put  in  plenty 
of  shirts  as  I  may  be  gone  some  weeks." 

"Very  good,  sir,"  replied  the  taciturn  Par 
ker.  "Hi  suppose  you  will  want  your  hulster 
for  the  journey,  sir." 

"Yes,"  replied  Duncan;  then  putting  on  his 
coat  and  hat,  and  seizing  a  pair  of  gloves  and 
a  stick,  he  rushed  down  the  stairs  without 
stopping  for  that  apartment  elevator  which 
was  never  running,  jumped  into  the  cab  he 
had  left  waiting,  and  was  off  uptown  to  his 
dinner.  He  was  only  half  an  hour  late  but 
his  rudeness  was  punished,  for  he  was  placed 
between  a  debutante  and  a  dowager,  and 
condemned  for  two  mortal  hours  to  endure 
alternately  insipid  zephyrs  and  chilling  blasts 
of  small  talk.  Stiff-backed  chairs  were  there 
and  stiff-backed  people  were  in  them.  Shaded 
candles  threw  a  flickering  light  upon  a  mass 


CROSS  FIRE.  25 

of  plate  and  flowers,  bonbons,  almonds,  fruit 
and  glasses.  Around  the  table  was  a  circle 
of  bare  necks  and  diamonds,  white  shirts 
and  ties;  and  behind  the  chairs  solemn  foot 
men  silently  moved  from  place  to  place  pass 
ing  the  endless  courses.  Some  of  the  guests 
were  bright  and  others  solemn;  some  brilliant 
and  others  stupid;  but  they  were  the  com 
ponent  parts  of  a  fashionable  dinner.  There 
was  a  banker,  a  broker,  a  yachtsman,  a  diplo 
mat,  a  merchant,  and  a  sprinkling  of  daw 
dling  men  of  leisure,  and  their  wives,  daugh 
ters,  and  cousins.  The  forks  rattled  and  the 
tongues  clattered,  while  each  strove  to  hide  his 
inner  nature  behind  an  effective  pose.  The 
clever  succeeded  and  the  stupid  failed.  Cof 
fee  was  brought;  the  women  arose,  a  man  or 
two  sprawled  beneath  the  table  to  find  some 
fan  or  glove,  and  then  the  women  filed  slowly 
out  to  gossip  and  dissect  their  neighbors,  and 
the  men  remained  to  drink  and  smoke  and 
drink  again,  while  a  ribald  wag  related  some 
choice  but  scandalous  tale,  and  ardent  sports 
men  took  sides  in  vain  disputes  about  the 
"Poseidon's"  time  allowance  and  "Salvador's" 
Suburban  chances. 


26  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

Duncan  was  moodily  indisposed  for  banter 
or  dispute.  His  buoyant  and  careless  spirit 
seldom  deserted  him,  but  thte  dinner  only 
claimed  his  presence  because  his  senior  partner 
was  the  host,  and  none  of  his  intimes  being 
there,  he  fell  readily  into  a  state  of  passive  ill- 
humor.  He  dosed  over  his  glass  of  port,  care 
lessly  puffed  his  cigar  and  occasionally  prof 
fered  an  opinion  with  a  superior  air  incited 
by  his  social  ascendency  over  most  of  the 
men  present.  Duncan  Grahame  was  a  man 
whose  dominant  characteristic  was  assurance, 
tempered  only  by  an  intuitive  knowledge  of 
the  social  amenities.  He  was  often  bold  but 
never  vulgar.  He  was  rude  in  the  manner 
of  most  society  men,  but  his  rudeness  was 
a  pose  prompted  by  the  mannerisms  of  the 
age,  and  designed,  as  was  his  coat,  after  the 
latest  London  model.  He  possessed  the  rare 
fortune  of  being  considered  handsome  both 
by  men  and  women.  His  beauty  was  of  the 
vigorous  type,  which  wins  admiration  by  its 
manliness  rather  than  its  perfection.  His 
eyes  were  great,  grey  wells,  which  gave  to 
women  a  Narcissus-like  reflection  of  their  own 
impulses.  They  charmed  by  their  seeming 


CROSS  FIRE.  2T 

sympathy,  but  were  really  the  artful  tools  of 
conscious  power.  To  most  men's  minds  curly 
hair  is  a  blemish  which  barbers'  shears  and 
bristly  brushes  may  remove,  but  to  women 
Duncan  Grahame's  short,  crispy  black  curls 
were  a  seldom  failing  charm.  Although  his 
eyes  might  deceive  even  one  who  knew  the 
countless  evidences  of  breeding  and  career,  his 
mouth,  partly  hidden  by  a  short  moustache, 
betrayed  the  hard,  unmistakable  markings  of 
indulgence,  and  a  student  of  life  would  have 
mentally  described  him  by  the  trite,  though 
significant  expression,  "a  man  of  the  world." 
And  such  was  Duncan  Grahame, — no  better 
and  no  worse  than  scores  whose  names  adorn 
the  blue  books  of  metropolitan  life.  There 
was  once  a  time,  not  many  years  before,  when 
he  had  been  an  innocent  and  confiding  boy. 
He  had  gone  to  school  and  then  to  college, — 
a  dangerous  experiment  at  best,  but,  with  a 
boy  like  Duncan,  who  had  been  brought  up 
within  the  strictness  of  a  Connecticut  home 
and  turned  upon  the  world  without  a  knowl 
edge  of  it,  pretty  sure  to  result  as  it  had 
turned  out  in  his  case.  It  was  the  old  story 
of  weakness,  ignorance,  and  a  desire  to  em- 


.28  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

ulate  his  upper  classmen  and  be  a  man.  The 
first  step  was  not  taken  without  a  struggle, 
but  one  by  one  the  cards  of  which  the  Puri 
tan  moral  structure  was  built  were  blown 
away,  and,  left  without  support,  the  edi 
fice  collapsed.  What  other  result  could  be 
expected?  His  Christian  ethics  were  but  the 
expurgated  teachings  of  the  pulpit,  tempered 
by  dogmas  and  doctrines,  and  in  his  home  the 
faintest  whisperings  of  the  real  world  brought 
blushes  to  his  parents,  and  stilted,  meaningless 
words  of  warning.  His  first  intimations  of 
worldly  ways  were  gathered  surreptitiously  in 
the  streets,  and  his  first  knowledge  of  the 
nature  of  sin  came  with  the  temptation. 
The  struggle  was  brief;  perhaps  it  was  as 
strong  as  could  be  expected;  and  soon  he 
was  the  careless,  fearless  leader  of  the  mis 
chievous,  rollicking  set  to  be  found  in  every 
college.  He  became,  he  thought,  a  man,  and 
knew  the  world.  He  left  college  and  after  two 
years  in  London  and  Paris  came  to  New  York. 
His  family  was  excellent,  his  appearance  at 
tractive,  his  manners  good,  and  his  assurance 
unbounded, — all  that  was  needed,  except  mon 
ey,  to  win  social  success  in  the  metropolis. 


CtfOSS  FIRE.  29 

Money  he  did  not  have,  but  he  resolved  to 
make  it,  so  into  Wall  Street  he  went,  and 
was  so  successful  there,  that  at  the  end  of 
three  years  he  became  the  junior  partner  of 
a  great  brokerage  house,  and  was  entrusted 
with  the  furtherance  of  many  delicate  schemes. 
In  society  he  had  won  his  way  to  a  leader 
ship  in  not  the  best,  but  the  best  advertised, 
set  in  New  York.  The  plunge  into  the  cold 
torrent  of  Wall  Street  deception  was  suffi 
cient  to  chill  even  a  stronger  optimistic  ardor 
than  Duncan's,  but  when  he  was  carried  on 
into  the  whirling,  flashing  eddies  of  smart 
society,  only  to  be  left  shivering  upon  the 
cruel  reefs  of  selfishness  and  debauchery, 
every  chivalrous  sentiment  was  gone,  and 
when  he  gathered  courage  for  the  second 
plunge,  it  was  as  a  designing,  selfish  disciple 
of  utility. 

To  return  to  the  dinner.  The  men  had  left 
their  coffee  and  cigars  and  the  lucky  ones 
had  singled  out  attractive  adversaries,  with 
whom  to  thrust  and  parry  bright,  sharp 
phrases  in  those  exhilarating  practice-bouts 
of  love,  sure  to  precede  the  desperate  en 
counters  where  mask  and  buttoned  foil  are 


30  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

cast  aside.  Others,  to  whom  fortune  was  less 
kind,  were  striving  to  cull  from  unsympa 
thetic  neighbors  some  evidences  of  interest 
and  intelligence,  or  had  resigned  themselves 
to  the  melancholy  fate  of  being  bored.  Dun 
can  wandered  restlessly  about  awhile.  He 
found  no  one  to  interest  him,  and  being 
too  selfish  deliberately  to  resign  himself  to 
another  dowager,  he  remembered  that  his  in 
tended  journey  to  the  West  offered  a  plausi 
ble  reason  for  retiring,  so,  making  his  excuses 
to  the  hostess,  he  took  his  departure,  feeling, 
as  he  folded  his  muffler  about  his  neck  and 
buttoned  his  great-coat,  that  for  a  successful 
dinner  more  depends  on  the  choice  of  guests 
than  the  choice  of  wines. 

The  little  blue  note  found  upon  his  dress 
ing  table  turned  his  steps  still  farther  uptown. 
The  thaw  of  the  afternoon  was  over;  it  was 
snowing,  and  cold  blasts  blew  the  flakes 
against  his  face,  biting  his  cheeks  and  chill 
ing  his  humor,  so  that  when  he  had  trudged 
the  three  squares  he  had  to  go,  he  felt  the 
ill-temper  which  a  raw  wind  invariably  pro 
duces  in  one  \vhose  moods  change  with  the 
barometer.  He  approached  the  particular 


CROSS  FIRE.  31 

flight  of  brown  stone  steps  he  sought,  and 
observing  that  the  street  both  ways  was  free 
from  passers,  and  that  the  curtains  of  the 
adjoining  houses  were  drawn,  he  ascended  and 
rang  the  bell;  a  servant  soon  opened  the  door 
and  he  entered  quickly.  The  door  closed, 
and,  instead  of  darkness  and  snowflake  blasts, 
there  was  warmth  and  light,  and  a  pretty 
woman  standing  just  inside  the  drawing-room 
door,  murmuring  playfully  in  a  soft  tone: 
"Duncan,  you  cold,  naughty  fellow,  I  was 
willing  to  lay  a  dozen  bottles  of  Houbigant 
that  this  wind  would  have  blown  away  what 
little  was  left  of  your  flighty  heart." 

"Don't  chaff  me.  I'm  in  no  mood  for  it. 
I  wish  you  had  sat  out  a  stupid  dinner  and 
afterward  had  tramped  three  blocks  in  the 
snow." 

"I  actually  believe  that  the  usually  serene 
nature  of  Mr.  Duncan  Grahame  is  a  trifle, 
that  is  to  say  only  a  trifle,  ruffled,"  she  iron 
ically  replied.  "I  fancied  that  while  Henry 
Stokes  Osgood,  Esquire,  whom  the  laws  des 
ignate  my  lord  and  master,  was  attending  the 
Yacht  Club  election,  Mr.  Grahame  might 
deign  to  amuse  me.  If  I  was  not  mistaken, 


'62  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

his  lordship,  when  he  has  removed  his  outer 
garments,  can  find  me  in  the  back  drawing- 
room." 

Duncan  was  left  standing  in  the  hallway. 
He  had  silently  permitted  her  to  retire  be 
cause  he  had  been  unable  to  find  a  ready 
reply  to  her  words.  He  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  be  disagreeable,  and  it  angered  him 
to  have  his  guns  silenced  after  the  first  fire. 

He  was  in  the  habit  of  bullying  women, 
but  such  tactics  had  invariably  proved  use 
less  against  Helen  Osgood.  When  he  was 
away  from  her  he  felt  ashamed  to  think 
that  her's  was  the  stronger  nature.  He  fan 
cied,  at  times,  that  he  did  not  care  for  her, 
and  was  resolved  for  policy's  sake  to  break 
away  from  her  influence,  but  each  attempt 
of  his  to  anger  her,  instead  of  producing 
tears  and  pleadings,  ended,  as  he  feared  this 
would,  in  a  meek  surrender  on  his  part.  "That 
woman  understands  me,"  he  muttered  as  he 
removed  his  great-coat.  He  was  never  sure 
of  his  ability  to  read  her  subtle  blue-black 
eyes;  even  her  soft,  olive  cheeks  never  changed 
their  delicate  shading,  and  her  thin,  languid 
lips  were  often  determined  and  cold.  Her 


CROSS  FIRE.  33 

hair  was  of  a  lustreless  black,  and  her  figure 
was  delicately,  but  superbly,  formed.  She  was 
the  blended  type  of  Celt  and  Creole,  her 
father  being  Scotch  and  her  mother  of  Lou 
isiana  French  descent.  In  her  the  cold  cun 
ning  of  the  North  bridled  the  reckless  warmth 
of  the  South.  Her  acts  were  prompted  by 
impulse  but  masked  by  design,  and  if  Duncan 
seemed  at  times  to  reach  her  Southern  heart, 
the  canny  Scotch  nature  quickly  veiled  her 
feelings,  and  he  was  left  at  a  loss  to  know 
whether  he  had  inspired  passion  or  merely 
aroused  amusement. 

But  it  was  not  his  nature  to  analyze  deeply 
or  reflect  long.  He  removed  his  coat,  walked 
slowly  down  the  long  hallway,  and  entered 
the  back  drawing-room  door.  Mrs.  Osgood 
was  gracefully  ensconced  in  the  corner  of  a 
divan  from  the  Orient,  and  her  eyes  were 
fixed  apparently  upon  the  latest  work  of  Paul 
Bourget.  A  tall,  bronze  lamp  was  at  her  side 
and  its  rays  were  tempered  by  a  carefully 
selected  shade  of  the  most  becoming  tinge, 
The  other  lights  were  dimmed,  and  beyond 
could  be  seen  the  subdued  forms  of  graceful 
plants,,  while  beneath  her  feet  the  yielding  fur 


34  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

of  an  Arctic  bear  half  hid  two  tiny  bronze- 
tipped  slippers  and  just  enough  of  scarlet  silk. 

Duncan  stood  silently  before  her.  Un 
curbed  natures  are  the  most  capricious,  and 
as  he  gazed  his  anger  turned  to  admiration, 
and  he  softly  sat  down  beside  her,  took  her 
hand,  and  said  winningly,  "Nell,  dear,  let's 
be  friends." 

She  pushed  him  away,  and  with  a  quick, 
proud  toss  of  her  head  coldly  said,  "Not  till 
my  lord  Duncan  has  humbly  sued  for  pardon." 

"Pardon  for  what?" 

"For  intended  flight  to  the  West  without 
permission  and  leave-taking." 

"Am  I  not,  then,  the  master  of  my  ac 
tions?"  Duncan  replied  in  a  somewhat  ruffled 
tone. 

"Not  if  you  expect  my  favor."  Then,  low 
ering  her  large,  black  eyes,  and  pointing 
authoritatively  to  the  floor,  she  continued: 
"Down  on  your  knees  and  confess  you  were 
attempting  to  act  without  my  knowledge." 

Duncan  started  angrily.  He  was  nettled 
at  the  tone  of  authority  she  assumed,  so  he 
replied:  "I  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  I 
see  no  reason  why  my  actions  should  be  ac- 


CROSS  FIRE.  35 

counted  to,  much  less  pardoned  by,  you." 
"You  big,  foolish  fellow,"  she  laughingly 
said.  ''You  have  been  spoilt  by  women.  You 
expect  that  a  declaration  of  independence 
delivered  with  so  much  bluster  will  anger  me. 
Down  on  your  knees  and  ask  forgiveness." 

Duncan  jumped  to  his  feet  and  paced  the 
floor.  He  was  too  angry  to  speak  at  first, 
but  he  finally  said  in  defiant  tones:  "I  should 
think  that  my  intended  departure  without 
your  being  informed  of  it,  would  be  sufficient 
to  advise  you  that  your  possible  feelings  on 
the  subject  were  of  supreme  indifference  to 
me." 

"Indeed!"  she  replied,  carelessly  tossing 
aside  the  Bourget  novel.  "So  I  am  to  infer 
that  Mr.  Duncan  Grahame,  being  weary  of 
the  woman  upon  whom  he  has  previously 
pretended  to  bestow  his  favors,  imagines  that 
the  easiest,  and  of  course  the  most  manly, 
way  to  rid  himself  of  her  is  surreptitiously 
to  steal  away  and  leave  her  to  discover  his 
change  of  heart  as  best  she  can.  Very  well, 
so  be  it.  But  I  really  wish  you  would  not 
molest  that  poor  bear's  head  with  the  toe  of 
your  boot.  If  you  have  no  regard  for  me, 


36  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

you  should,   at  least,  consider  the   feelings  of 
my  rug." 

She  quietly  commenced  reading  her  book, 
and  the  careless  and  continued  tapping  of 
the  little  bronze-toed  slipper  on  the  rug 
seemed  to  emphasize  her  apparently  com 
plete  absorption  in  the  words  of  the  French 
romancer.  There  is  no  man — or  woman  either 
— who  will  not  chafe  under  the  strain  of  in 
difference,  and  Duncan  was  no  exception  to 
the  rule.  Open  war  he  relished,  but  to  be 
dismissed  with  peremptory  coldness  when  he 
had  intended  to  be  the  aggressor  was  humil 
iating  to  the  strongest  sentiment  of  his  nat 
ure,  his  pride.  He  silently  watched  her, 
trying,  meanwhile,  to  formulate  some  plan  of 
action.  Angry  words  rose  to  his  lips  but 
were  checked  by  prudence.  He  had  lost  his 
temper  too  much,  he  thought.  His  eyes  care 
lessly  wandered  toward  the  book  she  was 
reading;  "  Cceur  de  femme "  were  the  words 
printed  across  the  yellow  cover  leaf.  "If 
that  Frenchman  understands  his  subject,"  he 
thought,  she  will  read  somewhere  in  that  book 
that  a  woman's  heart  adores  its  master  and 
detests  its  slave.  Bourget  is  an  analyst  of 


CROSS  FIRE.  37 

nature,  they  say.  Could  he  teach  me  more 
than  that  submission  can  never  be  success. 
Thank  you,  Monsieur  Bourget;  your  yellow 
cover  has  given  me  an  idea."  Then,  assuming 
an  air  of  mock  humility,  he  said:  "I  have 
been  waiting  to  hear  if  you  have  anything 
further  to  add  to  your  discharge." 

She  slowly  raised  her  eyes  from  her  book 
and  said  coolly,  "Nothing  whatever.  I  think 
you  understand  me  perfectly;  if  you  are  sat 
isfied  I  am."  Then  she  turned  again  to  the 
book,  apparently  vexed  at  the  interruption. 

"Very  well,"  he  replied.  "Since  the  under 
standing  is  mutually  perfect,  please  accept 
the  conventional  expressions  of  leave  taking, 
and  permit  me  to  say  'adieu'." 

"That  is  a  favor  you  can  easily  obtain," 
she  replied.  "But  pray  spare  me  the  task 
of  calling  a  servant;  this  book  is  intensely 
amusing,  and  I  feel  sure  you  know  all  the 
doors  of  the  house." 

"By  Jove,  you  are  a  keen  one,"  Duncan 
muttered  to  himself;  then  he  slowly  walked 
to  the  door,  put  on  his  coat,  took  his  hat, 
turned  up  his  collar,  opened  the  door,  and 
descended  the  steps.  "That  woman,"  he 


38  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

thought,  "is  a  sportsman  to  the  bone,  but  it 
will  do  her  good  to  leave  her  for  a  while. 
She's  a  thoroughbred,  though,  and  I  wish  I 
didn't  love  her." 

Mrs.  Osgood  listened  quietly  until  the  door 
had  shut  and  the  sound  of  his  steps  had  died 
away.  "So  he  expected  me  to  act  like  a 
school-girl,"  she  said,  half  aloud.  "  Some  wo 
men  are  fools,  I  suppose.  I  am  glad  he  did 
not  bluster  any  more.  I  hate  a  man  who 
loses  his  temper.  So,  Mr.  Duncan,  you  want 
to  leave  me.  You  have  my  permission;  but 
you  will  soon  be  back,  and  then  perhaps  you 
will  hear  me  tell  you  that  I — :no  you  won't, 
for  I  want  to  keep  your  handsome,  curly 
head  all  for  myself." 


CHAPTER  III. 

TWO   WOMEN. 

We  have  all  seen  a  manly  young  fellow  go 
up  to  college.  Full  of  life  and  vigor,  he 
sees  the  world  before  him;  but  the  thought 
of  all  its  battles  rouses  no  fear  in  his  young 
heart,  and,  though  his  pranks  are  boyish  and 
his  manners  rough,  he  stumbles  good  humor- 
edly  and  persistently  on  into  success.  His 
upper  classmen  patronizingly  smile  upon  him, 
while  his  natural  enemy,  the  Soph,  taunts 
and  teases  him,  but  is  sometimes  brought 
down  and  punished  by  his  strong,  young 
arms.  Youthful,  growing  Chicago  reminds 
one  of  this  college  boy.  She  has  left  the 
school  of  preparation  and  has  taken  her  place 
among  the  great  cities  of  the  earth,  where, 
full  of  energy  and  life,  she  is  fighting  her 
way  to  the  front.  Her  mature  colleagues  of 
the  Old  World  smile  patronizingly  at  her" 
efforts,  but  doubt  her  powers;  while  the  cities 
of  the  East,  seeing  in  her  a  young  rival,  taunt 


40  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

and  ridicule  her  with  jealous  anger.  She  is 
young;  but  strong  and  active;  and  if  she  is 
sometimes  carried  away  by  the  very  energy  of 
her  youth,  she  is  never  daunted,  and  the  older 
cities  of  the  East  have  already  felt  the  vigor 
of  her  sinewy  grasp.  Chicago,  with  her  broad 
avenues  and  stupendous  buildings,  her  spa 
cious  parks  and  stately  homes,  her  far-reaching 
railways  and  towering  chimneys,  her  bustling 
marts  and  busy,  surging  crowds  of  active  men 
and  women,  is  the  archetype  of  American  en 
ergy, — the  creation  of  yesterday  and  the  mar 
vel  of  to-day.  But  the  mortar  is  scarcely  dry 
and  the  stones  are  still  undimned  by  time. 
She  is  as  the  mason,  the  carpenter,  and  the 
builder  have  left  her — crude  and  fresh,  with 
out  the  dignified  stains  of  age,  without  the 
majestic  polish  which  time  alone  can  give. 
Her  social  structure,  like  her  brick  and  mor 
tar  buildings,  is  solidly  laid  and  firmly  built, 
but  new.  Her  people  built  Chicago  and  she 
is  the  best  memorial  of  their  energy.  They 
are  still  young  and  vigorous;  in  them  the 
ardor  of  the  pioneer  is  scarcely  dead;  the 
lethargy  of  long-held  wealth  has  yet  to  come. 
In  the  library  of  an  imposing,  but  new,  grey 


TWO   WOMEN.  41 

stone  mansion  on  Chicago's  Lake  Shore  Drive 
two  women  were  dawdling  together  over  Pet 
rarch's  "Canzoniere"  in  the  original.  A  well- 
thumbed  dictionary  was  in  the  lap  of  one, 
and  by  the  other's  side  lay  Volume  IV.  of 
Symond's  "Renaissance  in  Italy."  It  was  cold 
January,  and  the  broad,  low  window  showed 
the  angry  lake  dashing  against  the  great  sea 
wall  and  splashing  the  sparkling  spray  far 
over  the  roadway.  The  moaning  north  wind 
furiously  rattled  the  long  casements  and  sent 
occasional  puffs  of  smoke  and  cinders  out 
from  the  brightly  blazing  hearth  fire;  but 
these  outward  signs  of  winter  were  unable  to 
affect  the  inviting  coziness  of  the  apartment. 
Fortunately  the  decorator's  work  had  stopped 
at  the  walls;  so,  although  artistically  arranged, 
it  was  also  a  room  to  live  in.  Though  the 
chairs  were  carved  to  match  the  panels,  they 
were  also — pardon  the  term — sittable;  and 
though  the  bindings  on  the  low  book-shelves 
blended  well  with  the  tapestries  and  rugs, 
the  books  themselves  were  readable.  The 
same  judgment  which  had  chosen  the  books 
had  selected  bronzes  and  porcelain,  tiles  and 
tapestries,  and  the  tasteful  arrangement  of 


42  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

the  art  objects  at  once  bespoke  the  dilettante. 

The  elder  student  of  Italian  lyrics,  glancing 
up  from  the  "Rime  in  vita  e  morte"  said  in 
terrogatively  to  her  friend:  "I  wish  I  knew, 
Florence,  whether  Madonna  Laura  were  once 
a  living  woman  or  merely  the  divine  creation 
of  the  poet's  soul." 

"I  am  sure  she  must  have  been  a  fancy," 
the  other  replied.  "She  is  too  ideal  for  flesh 
and  blood,  and  besides,  she  was  married.  I 
don't  think  it  is  natural  for  any  man  so  sin 
cerely  to  love  another  man's  wife." 

"You  horrid  girl !  You  forget  that  Petrarch 
was  a  poet." 

"No,  I  don't,  my  dear  Marion;  but  so  were 
Shelley,  Byron,  de  Musset,  and  scores  of 
others.  The  same  broad  collar  and  velvet 
jacket  often  cover  both  an  artistic  temper 
ament  and  a  fleshly  nature.  Now  I,  for  one, 
don't  believe  in  pardoning  in  genius  what  we 
condemn  in  mediocrity.  If  Laura  was  an  in 
spiration  of  Petrarch's  soul,  the  poet  has  my 
admiration;  if  she  was  merely  another  man's 
wife  with  whom  he  was  enamored, — no  mat 
ter  how  delightfully  he  may  have  sung  of 
her, — I  lose  respect  for  Petrarch." 


TWO   WOMEN.  43 

"You  have  no  appreciation  of  the  beauti 
ful,  Florence." 

"I  appreciate  the  beautiful,  but  I  also  re 
spect  virtue.  There  is  enough  that  is  beau 
tiful  in  this  world  but  not  enough  that  is 
good." 

"O,  you  Philistine.  How  can  you  go  on 
reading  these  exquisite  lyrics  and  not  soar 
above  Puritan  casuistry  in  the  enjoyment  of 
beauty  for  its  own  sake?" 

"You  misunderstand  me,  my  dear.  I  never 
said  that  I  did  not  appreciate  the  beauties 
of  this  rhythm  and  the  subtleties  of  this  lan 
guage.  What  I  mean  is  that  I  see  no  reason 
why  a  poet's  errors  should  be  pardoned  be 
cause  his  quatrains  are  above  criticism.  Now 
Petrarch,  by  his  own  confession,  was  not 
exceptionally  well-behaved,  but  whatever  his 
morals  may  have  been  they  should  not  be 
judged  by  his  lyrics.  Nor,  for  that  matter, 
should  his  lyrics  be  judged  by  his  behavior." 

"You  have  lived  in  a  New  Hampshire  vil 
lage  too  long  to  view  the  world  through  the 
broad  lenses  of  cosmopolitanism." 

"I  have  been  away  from  a  New  Hampshire 
village  long  enough  to  look  through  the  sor- 


44  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

did  spectacles  of  worldliness,  and  I  was  glad 
enough  to  return  to  my  Puritan  blue  glasses." 

"Stop  talking  such  nonsense,  Florence.  I 
don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  Here  you  are 
not  quite  twenty-four  years  old.  You  have 
had  the  same  education  I  had;  we  went  to 
the  same  school,  studied  the  same  books,  lived 
in  the  same  room,  traveled  about  Europe  to 
gether  for  nearly  a  year,  met  the  same  people, 
have  almost  the  same  tastes,  and  have  spent 
a  winter  in  Washington  together,  to  say  noth 
ing  of  our  countless  letters  to  each  other 
in  the  interim.  The  only  real  difference  be 
tween  us  is  that  you  were  born  in  Fairville 
and  I  in  Chicago,  that  I  am  married  and  you 
are  not,  and  that  I  am  fourteen  months  your 
senior;  yet  with  all  this  affinity  of  tastes  and 
education,  you  deliver  a  bit  of  straight-laced 
Galvanism  \vhich  makes  me  shudder  and  smell 
sulphur  and  roasting  flesh." 

"I  deny  the  implied  accusation,  although, 
if  finding  fault  with  the  recklessness  of  life  of 
the  present  day  constitutes  being  a  Puritan, 
I  fear  I  shall  be  compelled  to  plead  guilty. 
They  say  one's  face  is  an  index  of  one's 
character,  so  I  suppose  mine  is  as  long  as  the 


TWO   WOMEN.  45 

one  hundred  and  nineteenth  Psalm,  and  as 
narrow  as  it  is  long." 

"No,  Florence,  you  are  a  dissembler,  for 
your  sparkling  blue  eyes,  bright  cheeks,  and 
soft  brown  hair  are  more  Parisienne  than 
Puritan,  to  say  nothing  of  those  white  teeth 
and  that  sweet  little  mouth.  No,  my  dear, 
there  is  nothing  narrow  about  your  face;  in 
fact,  I  think  it  is  almost  round  enough  for  a 
Breton  peasant." 

"You  cruel  woman!  I  shall  never  forgive 
you  for  such  an  insulting  remark.  You  could 
say  nothing  worse  except  to  call  me  buxom. 
I  know  I  am  not  classic,  or  antique  Etruscan, 
or  Ptolemaic,  but  I  don't  think  you  need  tell 
me  to  my  face  that  I  am  paysanne" 

"Don't  lose  your  temper,  dear.  If  I  told 
the  truth,  I  should  say  that  your  beauty  is 
of  that  charming  eclectic  type  which  only 
America  can  produce.  Intelligence  and  fidel 
ity  shine  in  your  deep  blue  eyes,  and  any 
woman  would  give  ten  years  of  her  life  for 
your  coloring,  to  say  nothing  of  your  superbly 
tall  figure." 

"I  feel  a  trifle  better,  but  I  can't  quite  for 
give  you  for  the  round  face." 


46  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

"If  Miss  Florence  Moreland  is  still  pro 
voked,  she  may  have  revenge  by  telling  me 
exactly  what  she  thinks  of  my  personal 
appearance  and  character  as  interpreted  by 
my  features." 

"Mrs.  Roswell  Sanderson  is  most  formal, 
but  I  assure  her  that  if  I  speak,  it  will  be  to 
tell  the  truth." 

"Come,  Florence,  I  am  really  in  earnest, 
and  I  promise  not  to  be  angry.  I  should  so 
like  to  know  exactly  what  you  think  of  me." 

"I  think  you  are  the  dearest  friend  I  ever 
had,  and  I  don't  intend  to  lose  you  by  criti 
cism." 

"Nonsense,  Florence,  I  promise  not  to  be 
angry,  and  I  feel  that  it  will  actually  do  me 
good." 

"Well,  if  you  will  hear  things  quite  as  dis 
agreeable  as  'the  round  face,'  here  goes.  I 
shall  begin  with  your  eyes.  I  believe  novel 
ists  call  them  the  lanterns  of  the  soul.  You 
have  superb,  dreamy,  black  eyes;  eyes  to  fill 
a  woman  with  envy  or  a  man  with  love, — 
but  they  are  both  absent-minded  and  ambi 
tious;  they  show  a  restless  longing  after 
unattained  hopes.  In  other  words,  they  are 


TWO   WOMEN.  47 

dissatisfied  and  cold,  but  from  an  artistic 
standpoint  that  only  enhances  their  attract 
iveness." 

"You  horrid  creature!  But  I  promised  to 
be  quiet,  so  go  on." 

"So  much  for  the  eyes;  now  the  nose.  It 
is  exquisitely  moulded  and  classic.  I  shall 
dismiss  the  nose  as  perfect." 

"O,  thank  you  so  much." 

"Now  the  mouth.  It  has  a  cupid's  bow 
and  it  droops  at  the  corners.  I  like  your 
mouth,  but  I  think  it  also  looks  dissatisfied. 
An  artist  would  rave  over  it,  but  when  his 
eyes  fell  on  that  transparently  white  com 
plexion,  and  that  glossy  hair  so  artistically 
knotted  at  the  back,  I  am  sure  he  would 
think  you  were  a  creation  of  Phidias  lost  from 
the  Elgin  rooms  of  the  British  Museum.  If 
you  did  call  me  eclectic,  I  must  admit  that 
your  type  is  pure,  unalloyed  Greek;  but  I 
won't  let  you  off  altogether,  for  I  consider 
your  figure  a  trifle  too  stubby.  Does  that  pay 
you  up  for  'the  round  face'?" 

"I  promised  to  keep  my  temper,  so  I  will 
spare  you;  besides,  I  must  confess  that  I  did 
not  come  off  so  badly  after  all.  'The  creation 


48  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

of  Phidias'  was  quite  flattering;  but  what 
makes  you  think  I  look  dissatisfied?" 

"I  am  sure  you  should  not  look  so,  for  of 
all  women  in  the  world  you  have  the  least  to 
make  you  discontented." 

"O,  Florence,  don't  talk  that  way.  You, 
who  have  been  my  best  friend  and  my  only 
confidante,  ought  to  know  that  even  the 
brightest  surroundings  have  their  shadows." 
Then  Marion  looked  out  over  the  angry,  grey 
waters,  and  Florence  saw  in  her  deep,  black 
eyes  just  the  dissatisfied,  longing  look  she 
had  described. 

"I  think,"  said  Florence,  "that  what  you 
call  shadows  on  your  bright  surroundings  are 
but  tarnish  which  neglect  has  left  there.  A 
little  extra  care  will  make  all  bright." 

"I  want  sympathy,  not  sermons,  Florence. 
I  was  brought  up  on  texts  and  tracts,  and 
the  Westminster  catechism  was  my  daily  nour 
ishment." 

"Why,  Marion,  dear,  I  don't  want  to  preach; 
I  want  to  help  you;  but  it  is  hard  for  me  to 
understand  why  you  should  not  be  perfectly 
happy.  Your  husband  adores  you;  he  is  rich 
and  denies  you  nothing;  you  are  a  leader  in 


TWO   WOMEN.  49 

society,  young,  handsome  and  admired.  What 
more  do  you  want?" 

"I  don't  know,  I  really  don't.  If  some  fairy 
queen  were  to  appear  in  a  blaze  of  light  and 
spangles  out  of  that  coal-scuttle  and  promise 
to  fulfill  any  wish,  I  should  be  at  a  loss  to 
tell  her  what  I  really  want,  but  I  am  not 
happy.  To  myself  I  find  fault  with  every 
thing  and  everybody.  Some  people  bore  me, 
some  people  upset  my  nerves;  at  times  I  feel 
utterly  lifeless,  and  at  times  I  get  into  such  a 
state  of  mind  that  I  almost  scream,  and  all 
over  nothing  at  all.  When  I  go  out  and  meet 
the  same  old  set  over  and  over  again, — and 
such  a  narrow,  prosaic  set  at  that, — it  seems 
as  though  I  should  fairly  go  mad.  What  I 
want  is  a  change.  I  am  perfectly  contented 
away  from  this  depressing  place.  When  I  was 
in  Washington  last  spring,  I  felt  almost  like 
another  woman;  in  fact  I  don't  believe  it 
is  anything  but  the  provincialism  of  Chi 
cago  which  is  putting  me  in  such  states  of 
mind." 

"Don't  be  foolish,  Marion.  As  though  such 
a  cause  could  make  you  discontented.  If  it 
does,  then  you  don't  appreciate  your  native 


50  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

city.  I  like  Chicago  and  I  would  rather  visit 
here  than  in  any  place  I  know." 

"Perhaps  it  is  because  your  old  friend, 
Harold  Wainwright,  lives  here,"  said  Marion 
insinuatingly.  Just  a  tinge  of  color  rose  in 
her  friend's  cheeks,  but  she  did  not  reply,  so 
Marion  continued:  "You  don't  have  to  live 
here  nine  months  in  the  year,  and  you  don't 
know  all  the  intricacies  and  peculiarities  of 
our  society." 

"Perhaps  I  don't,  but  to  me  the  peculiar 
ities  are  all  in  Chicago's  favor.  I  love  the 
go-ahead  spirit,  and  I  love  the  lack  of  affec 
tation  among  the  people  one  meets." 

"The  go-ahead  spirit  you  love,"  Marion  re 
plied,  "is  but  an  insatiable  craving  for  the 
'mighty  dollar',  and  the  lack  of  affectation 
resolves  itself  into  a  lack  of  savoir  faire" 

"Why,  Marion,  how  can  you  say  such 
things.  You  have  friends  here  with  as  much 
knowledge  of  the  world  as  any  one." 

"Yes,  but  how  many?  Perhaps  fifty,  or  be 
liberal  and  say  a  hundred,  and  they  were  all 
brought  up  away  from  Chicago,  or,  like  myself, 
have  lived  away  from  here  a  good  many  years 
of  their  lives.  If  they  remain  here  long 


TWO   WOMEN.  51 

enough  they  will   stagnate   like   the   natives." 

"You  unpatriotic  rebel."  I  have  almost  a 
mind  to  denounce  you  to  the  people  you  are 
slandering." 

"I  am  not  slandering  them.  I  am  only 
speaking  my  convictions.  You  think  I  am 
captious,  but  I  merely  understand  the  sub 
ject,  and  I  ought  to,  for  heaven  knows  I  have 
had  a  long  enough  experience.  One  has  the 
choice  here  between  parvenu  vulgarity  and 
Puritanic  narrow  mindedness.  The  one  makes 
us  the  butt  of  the  comic  papers  and  the  other 
is  simply  unbearable.  I  was  brought  up  in  the 
latter,  and  of  course  all  ancient  families, — that 
is  to  say,  those  dating  from  before  the  fire, — 
come  under  that  eminently  respectable  classi 
fication,  but  I  actually  believe  one  would  find 
the  pork-packers  more  distracting." 

"What  do  you  call  Puritanic  narrow-mind 
edness,  Marion?" 

"I  call  it  that  carping  sanctimoniousness 
which  makes  certain  people  throw  up  their 
hands  in  horror  at  the  slightest  appearance 
of  advanced  and  civilized  ideas.  It  is  scarcely 
more  than  five  years  since  a  woman  who  wore 
decollete  evening  gowns  was  one  of  the  chosen 


52  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

of  Beelzebub,  a  warm  meal  on  Sunday  night 
was  a  sacrilege,  and  wine  at  dinner  the  crea 
tion  of  the  Devil  himself;  but  the  people  who 
hold  such  ideas  will  talk  scandal  by  the  hour 
while  making  red  flannel  shirts  for  heathen 
babies.  I  don't  believe  you  know  how  a  few 
of  us  have  struggled  to  liberalize  this  city 
and  raise  its  society  a  little  above  that  of  a 
country  village." 

"You  are  too  bitter,  Marion." 

"No,  I  am  not.  You  should  have  witnessed 
the  tussle  I  had  with  mama,  before  I  was 
married,  in  order  to  get  livery  on  our  coach 
man,  and  to  abolish  the  anachronism  of  a  one- 
o'clock  dinner." 

"It  seems  to  me,  Marion,  that  your  criti 
cisms  apply  to  the  Chicago  of  the  past  and 
not  to  the  Chicago  of  to-day.  I  am  sure  I 
never  endured  a  noon  dinner,  and  as  for  the 
turn-outs  one  meets,  many  of  them  are  quite 
as  well  appointed  as  one  could  desire." 

"I  grant  you  that,  but  then  it  is  the  same 
limited  few  that  have  wrought  all  these 
changes,  and,  improved  as  the  city  is,  we  have 
had  to  overcome  almost  insurmountable  prej 
udices.  I  grant  you  that  Chicago  has  passed 


TWO   WOMEN.  53 

the  chrysalis  age.  It  is  no  longer  a  village 
but  it  is  far  from  being  a  metropolis." 

"You  have  everything  here  which  makes  a 
city:  opera,  theatres,  parks,  drives,  shops,  art 
galleries,  libraries,  restaurants,  and  even  races. 
What  more  do  you  desire?" 

"People,  Florence;  people.  We  want  people 
with  the  instinctive  sense  of  the  fitness  of 
things,  people  with  refined  tastes  and  culti 
vated  minds,  people  whose  souls  are  not 
bound  up  either  in  dollars  or  in  psalms." 

"Why,  Marion!  I  can  name  you,  off-hand, 
twenty  as  advanced  and  cultivated  people  as 
I  ever  met." 

"Of  course  you  can,  and  perhaps  fifty  more, 
but  there  you  will  have  to  stop.  Three  or 
four  score  of  people  do  not  make  society." 

"If  you  talk  that  way  I  shall  believe  you 
are  more  bigoted  than  the  sanctified  families 
you  have  just  described.  I  really  believe  you 
go  about  conjuring  up  imaginable  faults  in 
your  friends  merely  to  carry  out  your  ideas." 

"Don't  be  nasty,  Florence." 

"No,  my  dear,  I  love  you  too  much  for 
that;  but  it  is  really  dreadful  for  you  to  get 
into  such  states  of  mind.  I  think  I  under- 


54  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

stand  what  you  feel;  you  have  led  a  nomadic 
existence,  and  you  were  educated  in  a  differ 
ent  atmosphere.  An  acquaintance  with  three 
languages,  a  season  in  London,  a  winter  in 
Washington,  and  a  strong  love  of  variety  all 
combine  to  make  you  discontented  with  the 
life  here.  You  want  a  kaleidoscopic  exist 
ence,  an  ever  shifting  scene,  and  because  you 
are  here,  a  thousand  miles  from  the  nearest 
city  worthy  of  the  name,  it  is  quite  natural 
that  you  should  tire  of  meeting  the  same 
people  day  after  day.  You  think  of  London, 
New  York,  and  Washington,  where  society  is 
continually  shifting,  where  new  people  come 
and  go,  where  every  one  does  not  know 
or  care  about  his  neighbor's  business;  but, 
Marion,  granting  all  this,  are  you  not  a  little 
too  bitter?" 

"Perhaps;  but  just  think  of  the  lack  of 
savoir  faire  that  one  finds  here;  the  striving 
to  do  a  thing  correctly  and  missing  it  just 
sufficiently  to  ruin  the  effect." 

"That  is  a  criticism  which  might  be  applied 
to  American  society  in  general.  It  is  only  a 
poor  imitation  of  the  English  model.  For 
my  part,  I  almost  wish  we  could  go  back  to 


TWO   WOMEN.  55 

pumpkin-pie  and  Johnny-cake.  I  wish  we 
could  go  'buggy  riding  with  our  beaux'  and 
'spark  in  the  back  parlor.'  It  was  all  more 
original,  and,  what  is  mere  to  the  point,  more 
American." 

"You  fairly  make  me  shudder,  Florence. 
Where  did  you  get  such  Jeffersonian  ideas?" 

"In  my  New  Hampshire  home,  perhaps; 
but  despite  my  patriotism,  I  recognize  that 
the  buggy  and  the  back  parlor  have  gone 
never  to  return.  I  don't  regret  it,  either,  for 
I  am  just  as  fond  of  refinement  as  you  are; 
but  what  I  do  object  to  is  the  introduction 
of  extraneous  ideas  which  are  contrary  to 
the  spirit  of  Americanism.  I  love  Chicago 
because  it  is  fairly  American,  and  represents 
more  truly  than  the  older  cities  the  Yankee 
spirit  which  made  us  a  free  people.  You 
may  have  vulgar  parvenus  here,  but  where 
are  they  not  to  be  found?  This  may  be  the 
only  large  city  where  New  England  Puritan 
ism  affects  society,  but  it  is,  at  least,  Amer 
ican,  and  better  than  European  immorality. 
There  may  be  only  a  few  people  here  who  are 
initiated  into  the  esoteri  s  of  manners  and 
manias,  but  how  many  good  husbands,  loving 


56  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

wives,  and  happy  children  are  there  among 
your  rich!  you  may  dine  at  seven  o'clock  and 
go  to  dances  at  ten;  some  of  you  may  talk 
with  a  twang  and  pronounce  21  like  double  o; 
but  how  many  snobs  and  sycophants,  how 
many  unemployed  and  dissipated  men,  how 
many  intriguers  and  gamblers  have  you  in 
Chicago  society?  For  my  part  I  love  refine 
ment  and  les  petits  soins  as  much  as  you  do, 
Marion;  but  if  we  can't  have  the  good  of 
European  life  without  the  bad,  if  we  can't 
cultivate  manners  without  vices,  better  far  go 
back  to  sewing  bees  and  church  sociables, 
and  keep  our  morals  pure;  better  have  baked 
beans  and  blue  laws  than  truffled  capon  and 
depravity.  There,  I  feel  quite  exhausted,  but 
I  have  had  my  say." 

"Really,  Florence,  you  almost  take  my 
breath  away.  I  have  not  heard  such  a  screech 
ing  of  the  American  eagle  since  I  can  re 
member.  It  ought  to  make  me  very  much 
ashamed,  I  suppose,  but  somehow  the  flap 
ping  of  the  bird  of  freedom's  wings  never  did 
inspire  me." 

"I  positively  refuse  to  quarrel  any  more, 
but  I  do  wish  you  could  feel  different;  you 


TWO   WOMEN.  57 

t 
would  be  so  much  happier,"  Florence  replied. 

"O,  it  is  of  no  use.  I  am  discontented  by 
nature,  I  suppose.  My  ideals  are  too  high, 
my  realities  too  low.  Success  among  people 
of  rank,  reputation,  and  intellect,  is  what  I 
desire;  a  position  among  merchants,  manufact 
urers,  and  shop-keepers  is  what  I  have.  For 
intellectual  variety  I  read  a  few  papers  before 
the  Renaissance  Club,  and  meet  such  occa 
sional  notables  as  stop  over  here  long  enough 
to  view  the  stock-yards.  I  am  the  wife  of 
a  Chicago  banker  with  all  the  prerogatives  of 
that  position,  but  nothing  more,  and  with  no 
prospect  of  being  anything  more." 

"Nothing  short  of  a  coronet  and  a  Court 
appointment  would  satisfy  you,  I  fear.  As 
for  merchants  and  shop-keepers,  all  American 
society  is  composed  mainly  of  them  or  their 
spendthrift  children.  But  I  am  firm  in  my 
intention  not  to  argue  any  more,  so  let  us 
go  back  to  Madonna  Laura.  If  you  want  to 
feel  better  satisfied  with  Chicago,  think  about 
the  sickening  spectacle  of  Roman  society  at 
the  time  of  Petrarch,  and  the  futile  efforts  of 
his  friend,  Rienzi,  to  regenerate  it." 

"We  sha'n't  have  time  either  for  reading  or 


58  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

» 
discussion  before  dinner.     There  is   Roswell's 

key  in  the  door,  and  he  was  never  known  to 
leave  the  office  before  six  o'clock.  What 
gown  are  you  going  to  wear?  Something 
charming,  as  usual;  but  don't  forget  that  the 
drapery  in  the  Auditorium  is  old  gold  plush." 
"Why,  Marion,  I  had  quite  forgotten  we 
were  going  to  the  Opera  to-night.  Tamagno 
in  'Otello':  that  will  be  a  treat." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IN   AN   OPERA   BOX. 

A  long  and  motley  line  of  carriages  was 
slowly  arriving  at  the  Auditorium  entrance. 
A  surging,  gaping  crowd  was  jostling  the  few 
policemen  on  duty  and  trying  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  brilliant  dresses  of  the  women 
hurrying  into  the  lobby.  Long,  furry  wraps 
and  covered  heads,  perhaps  a  gleam  of  hidden 
diamonds,  were  all  they  saw;  but  it  was  a  pass 
ing  glance  into  a  forbidden,  dazzling  world. 
Footmen  scurried,  doors  were  slammed,  horses 
stamped,  and  husky-voiced  policemen  called 
out  orders  to  the  coachmen.  A  long  awning 
covered  the  carpeted  walk,  and  electric  lamps 
shed  a  brilliant  light  upon  the  muffled  comers 
and  the  eager  faces  of  the  waiting  crowd. 
It  was  not  a  wan,  hungry  crowd  of  starving 
beggars,  such  as  often  surrounds  a  foreign 
theater;  it  was  not  a  silent,  wondering  crowd; 
but  American-like,  it  was  cheerful  and  humor 
ous,  envious,  perhaps,  but  merry  in  its  envy. 

59 


60  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

It  laughed  and  gibed  at  every  novelty,  and 
its  jokes  were  shared  alike  by  the  smart  Eng 
lish  coachmen  and  the  driver  of  the  anti 
quated  family  "carry-all."  It  was  impudent, 
too,  but  it  was  the  impudence  of  the  great 
Republic, — the  bold  assertion  of  freedom  and 
prosperity. 

In  the  crowded  lobby  long  lines  of  people 
were  depositing  wraps  at  the  cloak-room  win 
dows,  some  were  standing  in  little  groups, 
and  hundreds  of  others  were  passing  up  the 
grand  marble  staircase  into  the  hall  above; 
Libretto  sellers'  cries  and  the  scurrying  tread 
of  many  feet  upon  the  hard  mosaic  mingled 
with  the  distant  strains  of  music,  and  scores 
of  glittering  lights  shone  upon  the  marble 
walls,  and  the  countless,  brilliant  dresses  of 
the  moving  throng.  On  into  the  great  hall 
the  people  went.  Five  thousand  seats  were 
being  filled,  and,  tier  above  tier,  they  rose 
like  a  section  of  a  Roman  theatre.  Two  rows 
of  boxes  lined  the  sides.  Delicate  wall  tints 
and  carefully  toned  lights  blended  softly  with 
pretty  faces  and  many  colored  gowns.  The 
colors  were  an  artist's  work  and  masterly 
was  it  done.  Up  from  the  stage  rose  a  mass 


IN  AN  OPERA    BOX.  61 

of  faces.  An  unbroken  multitude  it  was, 
grand  and  impressive.  Down  at  the  front  a 
little  man  was  frantically  leading  an  army  of 
skilled  musicians,  whose  rhythmical  efforts 
filled  the  noble  audience-room  with  the  over 
ture  of  Verdi's  masterpiece,  and  as  the  last 
note  rolled  far  away,  up  into  the  balcony 
loft,  and  was  lost  amid  the  subdued  whisper 
ings  and  rustling  programmes,  the  lights  were 
dimned,  the  stately  curtain  slowly  rose,  and  ten 
thousand  hands  applauded  a  welcome  to  the 
great  singer  from  distant  Italy.  Thousands 
of  music  lovers  wonderingly  listened  to  the 
amazing  power  and  range  of  Tamagno's  voice, 
hundreds  stood  at  the  back  of  the  amphi 
theatre,  and  even  the  little  swinging  gallery 
away  up  in  the  eaves  was  crowded  with  hum 
ble  enthusiasts.  But  there  were  a  conspicuous 
few  whose  whisperings  and  laughter  mingled 
with  the  artist's  notes;  a  few  whose  bids  were 
highest  at  the  auction  sale  of  boxes,  and 
whose  tardy,  noisy  coming  accentuated  their 
social  prominence  and  exasperated  every  lover 
of  good  music  and  good  manners. 

Among  these  was  Mrs.  Roswell  Sanderson, 
who,  with   her  husband,    Florence  Moreland, 


62  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

and  Mr.  Walter  Sedger,  had  just  entered  a 
box,  in  the  upper,  left-hand  tier, 

"What  a  superb  audience-room,"  said  Flor 
ence  Moreland  as  she  put  aside  her  fur-lined 
cloak  and  took  her  opera  glass  out  of  its 
case.  "How  beautifully  it  lights  up.  I  don't 
think  I  ever  saw  a  finer  sight." 

"Do  you  think  so,  Florence?"  replied  Ma 
rion  Sanderson.  "To  me  it  is  just  like  every 
thing  else  Chicago  produces,  stupendous  and 
gaudy.  They  have  tried  to  make  an  opera 
house,  a  concert  hall  and  a  convention  room, 
and,  consequently,  have  produced  a  building 
which  is  neither  fish,  flesh,  nor  fowl." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Florence. 

"I  mean  that  as  an  opera  house  it  is  a 
woful  failure.  They  have  shoved  two  tiers 
of  boxes  off  at  the  sides  and  have  given  the 
entire  house  up  to  seats;  they  have  put  in  a 
hideous  organ  where  the  proscenium  boxes 
ought  to  be,  and  have  invented  all  manner 
of  machines  for  lowering  the  roof  and  shut 
ting  off  the  galleries;  and  as  for  those  miser 
able  little  columns  holding  up  that  balcony, 
they  are  simply  ridiculous." 

"Marion  very  seldom  admires  home  pro 
ductions,"  Roswell  Sanderson  interposed. 


IN  AN  OPERA    BOX.  63 

"That  is  just  the  trouble,"  added  Florence. 
"For  my  part  I  admire  the  progressive  spirit 
which  prompted  the  architect  to  depart  from 
conventional  ideas.  If  there  are  no  boxes  at 
the  back,  every  one  can  see  and  hear,  and  I 
think  that  mass  of  people  rising  gently  from 
the  stage  one  of  the  most  superb  sights  one 
could  wish  to  see.  The  effects  of  the  Paris 
and  Vienna  opera  houses  are  not  to  be  com 
pared  to  it." 

"Don't  be  so  disagreeably  contradictory  to 
all  I  say,"  retorted  Marion. 

"I  sha'n't  for  the  present,  dear,  because  I 
wish  to  hear  some  of  that  glorious  music. 
You  must  not  take  what  I  say  seriously." 

Then  they  were  silent,  for,  unconsciously, 
they  were  brought  under  the  spell  of  the 
great  tenor's  art. 

"What  a  divine  voice  that  man  has,"  said 
Florence,  as  the  curtain  slowly  fell  after  the 
first  act.  "I  fairly  held  my  breath  during 
that  high  C.  Mr.  Sedger,  please  applaud,  and 
help  bring  him  out.  There  he  comes!  Bravo, 
bravo,  Tamagno !" 

"I  did  the  best  I  could,  Miss  Moreland," 
Walter  Sedger  said,  after  the  applause  of  two 


64  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

recalls  had  died  away.  "But  do  you  really 
enjoy  this  music  so  much?  For  my  part  I 
prefer  opera-bouffe." 

"I  admire  your  frankness,  Mr.  Sedger,"  she 
replied.  "There  are  so  many  people  who 
adore  Wagner  because  he  is  the  fashion,  and 
sneer  at  Verdi  and  the  Italian  school,  when, 
if  the  truth  were  known,  they  have  not  the 
slightest  conception  of  the  good  qualities  of 
either.  For  my  part  I  like  any  music  from 
a  hurdy-gurdy  up,  though  an  extended  term 
of  suffering  under  a  German  professor  has 
finally  produced  a  taste  for  such  music  as 
Verdi  has  given  us  in  'Otello',  which  seems 
to  me  quite  as  remarkable  as  some  of  Wag 
ner's  masterpieces." 

"Well,  I  am  glad  you  enjoy  it,  Miss  More- 
land,  but  I  fear  my  education  did  not  extend 
beyond  the  'Mikado'  and  'Ermine';  so  when  it 
comes  to  grand  opera  I  must  confess  my 
pleasure  is  confined  to  the  entre  acte.  I  love 
to  see  the  people,  and  if  it  were  not  for  be 
ing  rude  I  think  I  should  be  tempted  to  run 
down  to  the  club  while  the  curtain  is  up." 

"You  have  my  permission,  Mr.  Sedger,  but 
tell  me  who  is  that  good-looking  man  with 
Mr.  Wainwright,  coming  down  this  way?" 


IN  AN  OPERA   BOX.  65 

"He  is  a  New  Yorker;  Duncan  Grahame  is 
his  name.  I  met  him  at  the  club  this  after 
noon." 

"What  is  he  doing  here?  One  always  seems 
to  ask  what  a  stranger  is  doing  in  Chicago: 
I  don't  know  why,  I  am  sure." 

"He  is  out  here  on  business  in  connection 
with  an  elevator  trust.  He  seems  to  be  a  cap 
ital  fellow,  and,  as  he  is  a  member  of  the 
Staten  Club,  I  suppose  he  needs  no  further 
patent  of  respectability.  But  here  he  comes, 
so  you  can  judge  of  him  for  yourself." 

The  two  men  of  whom  they  were  speaking 
entered  the  box.  Harold  Wainwright  spoke 
to  the  ladies  and  introduced  his  friend.  Mrs. 
Sanderson  offered  Duncan  a  seat  beside  her 
and  said:  "I  have  heard  of  you  quite  fre 
quently,  Mr.  Grahame,  from  a  friend  in  New 
York,  Miss  Sibyl  Wright,  and  I  think  you 
should  be  grateful  for  having  such  an  enthu 
siastic  admirer." 

"Doubly  so  considering  that  she  is  a  woman 
and  it  was  to  you  she  spoke.  I  also  have  heard 
of  you  from  scores  of  people  in  the  East,  and 
I  made  Wainwright  introduce  me  at  the  first 
opportunity.  I  arrived  only  this  morning,  and 


66  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

I  assure  you    I    am    quite   without  a  guiding 
hand/' 

"You  make  me  smile  and  frown  by  turns," 
she  replied.  "I  was  tempted  to  feel  flattered 
at  the  first  part  of  your  speech,  but  if  it  is 
a  question  of  any  shade  in  the  desert,  I  shal 
not  feel  strongly  inclined  to  offer  you  my 
protection  in  the  Chicago  wilderness." 

"I  think  it  would  be  advisable  to  interpret 
my  speech  as  a  compliment,  as  I  seldom  make 
them." 

"Really,  Mr.  Grahame,  I  am  tempted  to 
call  you  rude." 

"It  is  not  rudeness  but  frankness,  I  assure 
you,  and  I  spoke  the  truth.  I  have  really  been 
most  anxious  to  meet  you,  and  now  that  my 
desire  has  been  gratified  I  trust  you  will  not 
be  so  cruel  as  to  let  the  frown  remain.  There 
goes  the  curtain.  I  am  going  to  beg  permis 
sion  to  return  after  the  next  act." 

"You  deserve  punishment  for  your  rude 
ness,  so  I  refuse  to  grant  it.  As  a  penance 
for  your  offense  I  shall  expect  you  to  remain 
where  you  are  during  this  entire  act  and  de 
vote  your  energies  to  amusing  me." 

"I     suppose    I    must    submit,    but    please 


IN  AN  OPERA    BOX.  67 

talk  to  me,  as  I  am  not  bold  and  feel  sure 
that  your  friend  is  a  musical  fiend  who  is 
quite  prepared  to  cast  furious  glances  at  me 
should  I  be  audacious  enough  to  speak  above 
a  whisper." 

"I  see  you  are  an  analyst  of  character." 

"Rather  more  of  a  synthesist,  I  imagine.  I 
collect  what  both  enemies  and  friends  say  of 
an  individual  and  then  build  his  character 
from  those  materials." 

"How  horrible!  I  trust  you  will  never  try 
your  method  on  me." 

"I  have  done  so  already." 

"You  wretch!     What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  I  have  heard  considerable 
about  you  in  New  York,  and  that  I  dined 
with  six  men  at  the  City  Club  this  evening. 
You  were  the  one  person  in  Chicago  I  was 
most  desirous  of  meeting,  so  I  managed  to 
collect  some  most  useful  materials  from  which 
I  have  built  my  estimate  of  your  character." 

"I  must  call  that  the  boldest  piece  of  as 
surance  I  ever  heard  of." 

"Why  any  more  so  than  for  me  to  judge 
you  by  my  own  impressions?  My  method 
is  more  judicial.  As  in  a  court  of  law,  I 


68  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

hear  both  sides  of  a  case,  and  do  not  permit 
myself  to  be  biased  by  personal  charms." 

"You  are  a  clever  pleader.  I  feel  tempted 
to  throw  myself  on  the  mercy  of  the  court 
and  receive  its  verdict." 

"Before  the  verdict  can  be  given  the  court 
must  be  cleared  of  reporters;  as  that  seems 
impracticable,  sentence  must  be  deferred." 

"Is  it  then  so  horrible?  If  so,  I  shall  feel 
tempted  to  'jump  bail'." 

"I  think  you  have  nothing  to  fear;  but  how 
did  you  acquire  such  a  knowledge  of  the  law?" 

"At  one  time  I  had  a  passion  for  read 
ing  accounts  of  trials,  and  I  even  went  with 
a  party  to  see  the  Anarchists  when  they  were 
on  trial." 

"What  a  morbid  curiosity  !" 

"Another  impertinence." 

"If  it  is  so  considered,  I  humbly  ask  par 
don,  and  meanwhile  I  move  that  the  court 
take  a  recess  which  shall  be  employed  in 
instructing  me  in  the  intricacies  of  Chicago 
society." 

"I  see  you  want  more  material  with  which 
to  construct  characters;  if  so,  we  had  far  better 
listen  to  the  opera." 


IN  AN  OPERA   BOX.  69 

"O,  bother  the  opera  !  It  is  vulgar  to  listen 
to  an  opera;  it  shows  a  lack  of  conversational 
powers.  Don't  you  think  so?" 

"One  can  easily  see  that  you  came  from  New 
York,  and,  like  all  New  York  men,  I  suppose 
you  expect  to  be  pampered." 

"Of  course  I  expect  it,  so  please  tell  me 
about  those  people  in  the  opposite  boxes.  You 
need  not  fear  to  speak  the  truth,  as  I  am  an 
entire  stranger." 

"If  I  do,  as  a  friend  I  shall  expect  you  to 
let  my  opinions  go  no  further." 

"Cela  va  sans  dire" 

"You  must  first  understand,  then,  that  every 
man  here  has  an  employment.  We  have  ab 
solutely  no  'unemployed  rich'." 

"Idleness  must  be  at  a  premium." 

"On  the  contrary  it  is  tabooed.  However, 
though  we  are  all  in  trade  we  have  distinc 
tions  as  intricate  as  the  most  ancient  aristoc 
racy." 

"How  so?" 

"In  the  peculiar  meshes  from  which  society 
is  woven.  For  example:  a  wholesale  dry- 
goods  merchant  is  an  aristocrat,  a  retailer 
a  plebeian;  a  hotel  keeper  may  be  a  lord,  a 


70  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

restaurant  keeper  a  commoner;  a  car  builder 
is  a  prince,  a  carriage  builder  a  burgher;  a 
brewer  may  be  a  count,  a  beer  seller  a  churl; 
and  so  on,  although  even  if  a  member  of  a 
certain  trade  is  in  society,  his  confreres  may 
be  without  the  pale." 

"Much  the  same  as  in  New  York,  only  there 
hotels  and  dry  goods  are  commoners,  while 
tobacco  and  skins  are  lords." 

"Yes,  but  at  least  society  is  older  there. 
The  skins  have  been  buried  for  a  generation 
or  two." 

"In  some  cases,  yes,  but  in  others  they  are 
still  uncured.  I  am  a  working  man  myself, 
and  I  must  defend  my  class." 

"But  surely  you  have  respect  for  estab 
lished  institutions." 

"Yes,  but  not  for  dead  ancestors.  Suppose 
I  search  through  the  dusty  archives  of  the 
Herald's  College  for  a  drop  of  Norman  blood; 
I  find  that  it  was  spilt  on  Saxon  land  by 
some  hireling  freebooter,  or  landgrabber,  who 
followed  at  the  heels  of  a  conscienceless  ad 
venturer." 

"You  are  republican  enough  to  please  the 
taste  of  my  friend,  Miss  Moreland." 


IN  AN  OPERA   BOX.  71 

"I  fear  you  misunderstand  me.  I  am  not 
patriotic,  or  republican,  or  anything  else,  for 
that  matter." 

"Except  the  incarnation  of  contrariety." 

"I  hate  polemics,  so  I  will  cry  touche  as 
one  does  in  fencing  after  a  thrust,  and  end 
the  contest." 

"You  mean  you  would  rather  thrust  than 
parry.  You  men  are  all  alike.  You  told 
the  truth  when  you  expressed  a  fondness 
for  being  pampered,  and,  as  it  is  the  duty 
of  our  sex  to  be  compliant,  I  await  your 
pleasure." 

"If  I  am  to  be  so  indulged,  I  confess  to 
feeling  a  craving  to  hear  the  promised  lecture 
about  those  people  across  the  way." 

"I  would  willingly  comply  but  that  falling 
curtain  says  it  must  again  be  deferred.  On 
second  thought,  perhaps  it  would  be  better  to 
give  you  an  object  lesson,  so  if  you  will  come 
and  see  me  to-morrow  about  five,  I  will  take 
you  to  a  tea  where  you  may  meet  them  all 
and  judge  for  yourself." 

"I  see  you  mean  to  prevent  my  favorite 
method  of  character  study.  I  fear  you  will 
succeed,  as  the  enticing  preventive  you  sug- 


72  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

gest  cannot  possibly  fail  to  be  effectual.  I 
willingly  submit  to  your  cure  and  will  come 
to  you  at  the  appointed  hour." 

The  fall  of  the  act  drop  was  followed  by, 
a  confused  fluttering  of  dresses  and  hum  of 
voices;  people  stretched  and  rose,  talked,  or 
wandered  toward  the  foyer,  while  hundreds 
of  glasses  were  leveled  at  the  boxes,  and 
every  one  of  mark  or  notoriety  was  scru 
tinized  by  hundreds  of  eyes  and  criticised 
by  hundreds  of  tongues.  Society  was  there 
paraded  in  two  rows  of  little  pens,  labeled 
and  ticketed  at  so  many  millions  per  head,  to 
be  gazed  upon  by  the  curious  and  envious  of 
that  great  throng.  Society  was  the  operatic 
side-show,  and  society  paid  dearly  for  the 
privilege  of  being  seen. 

"Do  you  like  to  be  gazed  at  by  a  crowd, 
Mr.  Grahame?"  said  Florence,  after  a  moment 
ary  silence. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  do,"  he  replied.  "It  makes 
one  feel  so  superior  to  be  up  above,  looking 
down  on  the  'madding  crowd'." 

"Do  you  think  so?  I  always  feel  like  a 
caged  animal  at  a  menagerie,  where  each  one 
who  pays  the  admission  fee  can  gratify  the 


IN  AN  OPERA    BOX.  73 

curiosity  he  has  about  me,  and  poke  me  with 
his  umbrella  if  he  does  not  like  my  looks." 

"How  absurd;  but  I  understand  you  are 
democratic  in  your  feelings  and  object  to 
class  distinctions.'* 

"Not  in  the  least;  on  the  contrary  I  believe 
in  them.  Nature  herself  has  decreed  that  no 
two  creatures  can  be  equal.  What  I  object 
to  are  inflated  distinctions  which  rest  on 
no  foundation,  and  collapse  completely  when 
pricked  by  sound  opinion." 

"Miss  Moreland  believes  in  an  aristocracy 
of  merit,"  interposed  Harold  Wainwright. 

"Yes,"  replied  Florence,  "but  where  is  it  to 
be  found?" 

"Not  in  a  republic,"  retorted  Duncan.  "A 
democracy  is  a  breeding  ground  of  pluto 
crats." 

"Perhaps,  when  its  Government  discourages 
every  intellectual  pursuit,"  replied  Wain 
wright.  He  felt  strongly  the  ungratefulness 
of  republics,  as  his  father  had  been  a  Federal 
judge  on  a  miserly  salary,  with  no  pension 
after  years  of  faithful  service. 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,  Harold,"  replied 
Florence,  "and  I  only  wish  I  were  a  man." 


74  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

"Why?"  interposed  Mrs.  Sanderson,  who 
had  just  finished  interchanging  polite  plati 
tudes  with  Walter  Sedger. 

"So  that  I  might  express  my  views  about 
the  evils  of  our  political  system." 

"And  be  called  by  that  expressive  word 
which  is  not  in  the  dictionary,  'a  crank',"  said 
Duncan  ironically.  "That  is  the  reward  of  a 
reformer." 

"John  Bright  and  Wendell  Phillips  were 
both  'cranks'  in  their  day,"  was  the  reply, 
"but  I  would  not  object  to  their  reputation. 
By  the  way,  here  comes  a  'crank'  whom  I 
almost  love,"  she  added,  as  a  stout,  kindly 
faced,  elderly  man,  whose  features  wore  the 
sweet  expression  of  earnest  and  wrell  guided 
intelligence,  approached  the  box. 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  Duncan,  following  her 
eyes. 

"Dr.  Maccanfrae,  physician  and  philanthro 
pist,  missionary  and  moralist,  and  the  dearest 
man  in  the  world,  besides,"  she  replied.  "He 
does  more  good  in  a  day  than  twenty  Poor 
Boards  do  in  a  week,  and  has  more  genuine 
Christian  charity  in  his  soul  than  a  score  of 
average  parsons,  although  he  is  an  evolution 
ist  and  a  pantheist  combined." 


IN  AN  OPERA   BOX.  75 

"A  most  flattering  description,"  said  Dun 
can.  "I  hope  he  deserves  such  adulation." 

"He  certainly  merits  it  all,"  added  Wain- 
wright. 

Dr.  Maccanfrae  entered  the  box  and  Walter 
Sedger  improved  the  opportunity  to  slip  away 
and  visit  some  friends.  The  Doctor  spoke  to 
Mrs.  Sanderson,  then  moved  toward  the  cor 
ner  occupied  by  Florence  Moreland,  while 
Duncan  dropped  quietly  into  the  seat  left 
vacant  by  Mr.  Sedger. 

"What  can  bring  so  industrious  a  man  as 
Dr.  Maccanfrae  to  the  opera?"  said  Florence 
as  the  Doctor  took  the  seat  beside  her. 

"The  opera  itself,  Miss  Florence.  I  am 
devoted  to  music  and  never  lose  an  oppor 
tunity  of  hearing  it  well  rendered.  Isn't 
Tamagno  doing  grandly  to-night?" 

Her  reply  was  interrupted  by  the  appear 
ance  of  a  tall,  plainly  dressed  woman,  who, 
pencil  and  paper  in  hand,  entered  the  box 
door.  Her  face  was  refined,  though  careworn, 
and  bore  the  mark  of  better  days.  She  hesi 
tated  for  a  moment,  as  though  realizing  fully 
her  intrusive  calling,  then  advanced  toward 
Duncan.  "May  I  ask  you,  sir,  to  give  the 


76  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

names  of  your  party  for  the  Morning  Stentor  ? " 
she  finally  said. 

"What  does  she  mean?"  said  Duncan,  turn 
ing  to  Mrs.  Sanderson  for  an  explanation. 

"It  is  one  of  the  peculiarities  of  Chicago 
life,"  she  replied.  "It  is  for  to-morrow's  soci 
ety  column. " 

"And  do  you  give  them  the  information?" 
he  asked. 

"O,  yes,  it  is  better  to  have  it  right,  as 
they  publish  it  anyway,  right  or  wrong,"  she 
replied,  and  then  she  told  the  reporter  the 
names. 

"Might  I  trouble  you  to  describe  your 
dress?"  was  the  next  question  asked.  "I  am 
sorry  to  be  so  intrusive,  but  it  is  the  city 
editor's  orders,  and  we  have  to  do  the  best 
we  can." 

"You  are  a  woman,  and  understand  such 
matters,  so  I  think  you  had  better  do  that 
yourself,"  Mrs.  Sanderson  replied. 

The  reporter  thanked  her  and  withdrew. 
When  she  had  gone  Duncan  said  wonder- 
ingly:  "We  have  society  reporters  in  New 
York,  but  they  never  go  quite  so  far  as  to 
ask  one  to  describe  oneself.  Who  reads  such 
particulars  anyway?" 


IN  AN  OPERA   BOX.  77 

"Ask  Dr.  Maccanfrae,  he  is  wiser  than  I," 
she  replied. 

"Dr.  Maccanfrae,  who  should  you  say  read 
the  society  columns  of  the  newspapers?"  he 
asked. 

"People  who  expect  to  find  their  names 
in  print,  and  people  who  think  their  names 
ought  to  be  in  print,  to  say  nothing  of  those 
who  read  society  columns,  as  they  do  society 
scandals,  in  order  to  get  a  reflection  of  the 
tinsel  and  tarnish  of  an  unknown  world." 

"That  must  include  a  great  portion  of  news 
paper  readers,"  replied  Duncan. 

"Precisely;  that  is  why  society  scandals  and 
fashions  occupy  so  large  a  portion  of  our 
papers,"  the  Doctor  replied.  "But  there  comes 
the  conductor,  so  I  must  get  back  to  my 
place." 

"Won't  you  remain  here,  Doctor?"  said  Mrs. 
Sanderson. 

"No,  I  thank  you.  I  only  came  in  to  pay 
my  respects,  and,  as  I  have  a  musical  friend 
with  me,  I  must  get  back  to  him." 

The  Doctor  hurried  away  and  the  little  man 
away  down  in  front  lifted  his  baton.  Ninety 
musicians  watched  the  beat  of  the  first  bar, 


78  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

and,  as  the  baton  fell,  sixty  bows  moved  in 
unison,  and  trumpets,  horns,  trombones,  and 
reeds,  added  their  strains,  while  the  act  drop 
slowly  rose  disclosing  the  great  stage,  gor 
geously  set  as  Otello's  audience-chamber. 

"I  must  tell  you  an  amusing  tale  about 
'Otello,' "  whispered  Mrs.  Sanderson  to  Dun 
can  Grahame.  "I  was  in  Rome  when  the 
opera  was  brought  out  there,  and  went  with 
the  American  minister  and  his  wife.  Revere 
was  their  name  and  they  came  from  Talla 
hassee.  He  had  been  a  congressman,  but 
she  had  never  been  away  from  home  until 
she  went  as  the  wife  of  our  representative  in 
Austria,  so  you  can  imagine  her  ignorance  of 
the  world.  She  watched  the  opera  quietly 
until  she  noticed  that  the  black  Otello  bore 
some  relation  to  the  white  Desdemona.  That 
made  her  hem  and  fidget,  but  when  Otello 
embraced  his  wife,  she  put  up  her  fan  in  dis 
gust,  and  said  indignantly  to  me:  'How  out 
rageous  !  I  assure  you  such  conduct  would 
not  be  tolerated  in  Tallahassee.' " 

Grahame  laughed,  and  then  they  listened 
to  the  grand  music  of  Verdi  for  a  while,  but 
it  was  not  the  opera  which  inspired  their  in- 


•IN  AN  OPERA   BOX.  79 

terest,  for  the  subtle  spell  of  similarity  seemed 
to  arouse  the  sympathy  of  kindred  taste. 
Bright  phrases  and  pleasing  words  flashed  be 
tween  them,  and  quickly  another  act  passed. 
Again  the  people  rose  and  talked,  again  vis 
itors  came  to  the  box  and  uttered  conven 
tional  insipidities.  Finally  Roswell  Sanderson 
himself  returned.  He  had  passed  the  evening 
in  the  manager's  office  with  some  friends,  but 
his  wife  did  not  even  express  a  curiosity  to 
know  it.  The  curtain  rose  on  the  last  act. 
"Come,"  said  Wainwright  to  Duncan,  "we 
must  go  back  to  our  seats.  Good-night,  Mrs. 
Sanderson."  "Good-night,  Mr.  Grahame."  UA 
demain"  said  Duncan,  and  he  was  off.  An 
other  act  of  the  opera  was  rendered,  then 
the  great  house  was  slowly  emptied,  and  hun 
dreds  of  carriages  bore  their  occupants  away. 
The  lights  went  out,  the  weary  artists'  hurried 
home,  the  Auditorium  was  left  cold,  silent 
and  deserted. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A    CHALLENGE. 

Marion  Sanderson's  surroundings  kept  her 
in  a  continual  state  of  irritation.  Her  fancy 
created  an  ideal  life  with  harmonious  envi 
ronments  and  sympathetic  friends,  but  the 
reality  was  what  she  termed  "an  utterly  com 
monplace  existence."  From  early  childhood 
her  parents  and  acquaintances  had  jarred  upon 
her,  so  that  her  fanciful  mind  had  carried  on 
incessant  warfare  with  her  prosaic  surround 
ings.  Her  father  and  mother  were  respect 
able  representatives  of  practical  Galvanism, 
who,  endeavoring  to  make  their  child  a  pillar 
of  the  Church,  had  persistently  combated  her 
natural  tendencies.  For  days  at  a  time,  dur 
ing  her  younger  years,  the  poor  child  would 
obediently  follow  the  routine  of  prayer  pre 
scribed  for  her  until  worn  out  by  the  drastic 
Scotch  tenets;  then  rebellious  tears  would  flow, 
and  she  would  permit  some  natural  sentiments 
to  escape  from  her  impulsive  heart.  Such  out- 


A   CHALLENGE.  81 

bursts  most  frequently  occurred  on  Sunday, 
and  they  invariably  called  from  her  mother's 
lips  the  time-tried  reproof:  "I  think,  Marion, 
you  forget  the  day.  Remember  the  Sabbath 
day  and  keep  it  holy."  Resentful  and  dis 
gusted  the  child  would  expostulate,  only  to 
be  frigidly  denounced  as  one  possessed  of  an 
evil  spirit;  then  she  would  rush  to  her  room 
and  remain  for  hours  sobbing  and  yearning 
for  sympathy.  "Fox's  Book  of  Martyrs,"  "The 
Church  at  Home  and  Abroad,"  and  "Baxter's 
Saints'  Rest"  were  her  literary  diet,  but  she 
managed  to  devour,  surreptitiously,  romance 
after  romance,  and  her  greatest  pleasure  was 
to  live  over,  in  fancy,  the  lives  of  those  she 
had  read  about.  Thus  for  fifteen  years  the 
restless  child  tugged  unsuccessfully  at  the 
parental  tethers  till  relief  came  from  an  un 
expected  quarter. 

Marion's  mother,  despairing  of  her  child's 
spiritual  welfare,  decided  curiously  enough, 
to  send  her  abroad  to  the  care  of  her  sis 
ter-in-law,  the  wife  of  the  United  States  minis 
ter  to  France.  This  aunt,  being  a  woman  of 
broad  sympathies  and  experience,  questioned 
the  girl  about  her  education,  and,  finding  that 


82  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

it  had  been  confined  to  the  three  R's  and 
the  Westminster  catechism,  decided  to  send 
her  to  school.  So  Marion  was  forthwith  en 
sconced  in  a  select  pension  patronized  by 
the  Faubourg  St.  Germain  nobility.  Here  a 
new  life  was  opened  to  Marion,  and,  freed 
from  her  childhood's  restraints,  she  eagerly 
sought  companionship  with  these  girls  of  a 
different  world.  She  learned  a  new  language 
and  new  sentiments,  and  though  novels  were 
forbidden  in  the  school,  the  pages  of  Balzac, 
Merimee,  Sand  and  Gautier,  surreptitiously 
read,  fed  her  fancy  with  new  impressions  and 
created  new  aspirations.  Florence  Moreland 
was  the  only  other  American  in  the  school, 
and  to  her  Marion  was  attracted  by  the  very 
oppositeness  of  her  nature.  The  frank  prac 
ticality  and  keen  perception  of  Florence  fas 
cinated  her,  and  although  the  two  girls  dis 
agreed  on  most  subjects,  a  warm  affection 
always  kept  their  hearts  united. 

Marion  left  the  pension  at  the  age  of  seven 
teen.  By  that  curious  process  of  expatriation 
which  few  but  Americans  can  successfully 
undergo,  her  childhood's  sentiments  had  been 
removed,  and  European  ideas  had  been  en- 


A  CHALLENGE.  83 

grafted  in  their  place.  Her  aunt,  who  during 
Marion's  pension  days  had  vibrated  between 
Paris  and  the  Riviera,  now  took  her  for  a  few 
months  of  travel.  Florence  was  invited  to 
accompany  them,  and  after  making  the  con 
ventional  summer-garden  tour  of  the  Conti 
nent,  they  went  to  Nice  for  the  winter.  There 
the  two  girls  studied  Italian  and  mixed  in  the 
quasi  Anglo-European  society  of  the  place — 
certainly  not  the  best  for  a  girl  first  to  enter. 
The  transfer  of  Marion's  uncle  to  the  English 
mission  brought  them  to  London,  and  they 
were  just  enjoying  the  excitement  of  a  first 
season  when  Marion's  parents  ordered  her 
home.  A  child  when  she  left  Chicago,  she  was 
now  a  woman.  Her  home,  which  had  been 
uncongenial  before,  was  now  intolerable.  Her 
life  became  a  continual  struggle  against  the 
prejudices  of  her  parents.  She  longed  to  pull 
down  the  sombre  drawing-room  curtains  and 
pitch  the  stiff-backed,  haircloth  chairs  out 
of  the  window;  but  her  father,  though  a  mill 
ionaire,  would  brook  no  change.  Still  she 
struggled  on,  demanding  an  alteration  in  the 
dinner  hour,  wine  at  table  and  the  discard 
ing  of  the  family  carry-all.  "Do  you  want 


84  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

me  to  open  the  house  to  Satan?"  her  mother 
asked  in  horrified  tones.  "I  want  you  to  be 
civilized  beings  and  not  anchorites,"  she  replied. 
Her  mother's  friends  were  practically  limited 
to  the  communicants  of  the  Knox  Presbyterian 
Church,  but  such  a  society  only  served  to 
exasperate  her  more.  To  her  the  men  were 
stupid  slaves  of  business  and  the  women  narrow- 
minded  prudes.  There  was  a  progressive  set 
whose  companionship  she  desired,  but  in  her 
mother's  mind  they  were  the  Devil's  chosen, 
and  were  consequently  forbidden  the  house. 
In  desperation  Marion  sought  relief  and  it 
came  in  the  shape  of  a  husband.  Roswell 
Sanderson  was  vice-president  of  her  father's 
bank,  rich,  prominent,  and, — what  was  more 
to  her, — liberal-minded.  He  asked  her  to  be 
his  wife,  and,  without  analyzing  her  feelings 
further  than  the  sense  of  gratefulness  which 
she  felt,  she  accepted  him.  After  a  brief  en 
gagement  they  were  married  and  her  new  life 
began. 

Marion's  husband  was  a  country  boy  who 
had  been  sent  to  an  Eastern  college;  and 
possessing  American  energy  and  perception 
in  a  marked  degree,  he  rapidly  won  a  place  in 


A  CHALLENGE.  85 

the  first  rank  of  Chicago  business  men.  He 
was  a  man  of  broad  ideas  and  sympathies, 
but  lacked  the  delicate  veneer  of  manners 
which  distinguishes  the  cosmopolite  from  the 
provincial.  In  Marion's  eyes  this  fault  soon 
became  greatly  magnified.  His  flat  pronun 
ciation  and  Western  inflection,  his  cordial, 
unstudied  manner  and  hearty  laughter  so  mor 
tified  her  that  in  the  presence  of  those  who 
were  capable  of  recognizing  his  shortcomings, 
her  manner  became  apologetic.  His  open- 
hearted  frankness,  which  made  him  a  friend 
of  high  and  low,  so  rasped  her  ideas  of  con 
vention  that  all  sense  of  sympathy  was  dis- 
troyed,  and  her  married  life  was  no  more 
congenial  than  that  at  home  had  been.  Ros- 
well  never  criticised  her  actions,  so  she  was 
enabled  to  seek  relief  in  society.  She  saw 
the  gradual  enlargement  and  improvement  of 
Chicago  but  she  was  able  to  pick  flaws  in  the 
struggles  of  society  to  break  the  shackles  of 
provincialism,  and  she  longed  to  hasten  the 
metropolizing  process.  Unlike  Florence  More- 
land  she  could  not  admire  the  vigor  and  fresh 
ness  of  Western  life,  but  permitted  herself  to 
suffer  from  intense  mortification  at  the  faults 


86  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

which  others  would  have  passed  unnoticed. 
Marriage  and  society  having  failed  to  supply 
the  happiness  she  desired,  she  turned  to  books. 
Her  selections  of  reading,  however,  were  des 
tined  to  intensify  her  restlessness,  for  in  the 
pages  of  Daudet,  Bourget  and  de  Maupassant 
she  found  the  anomalies  of  human  weakness 
painted  in  brilliant  and  exculpatory  colors. 
The  clever  portraitures  of  these  subtle  analysts 
created  a  spirit  which  caused  her  to  explain 
her  eccentricities  of  feeling  by  comparison 
with  the  emotions  described  in  their  yellow- 
covered  records.  She  became  a  disciple  of  the 
modern  philosophy  of  introspection,  which, 
unlike  that  of  the  stoic  and  anchorite,  is  not 
intended  to  humble  desire,  but  to  create  a 
morbid  craving  for  the  unattainable.  Recog 
nizing  that  the  absorbing  passion  of  her  life 
was  yet  to  come,  she  scrupulously  analyzed 
each  impulse  she  felt  and  resolved  it  into 
infinitesimal  atoms  of  feeling,  which  again 
were  subjectively  compared  with  the  minutest 
details  of  her  analytical  romances.  The  conse 
quence  was  that  her  emotions  were  kept  in 
a  state  of  continual  irritation,  and  ordinary 
pleasures  becoming  less  and  less  gratifying, 


A   CHALLENGE.  87 

a  desire  for  new  excitements  and  experiences 
was  created.  It  was  in  such  a  state  of  mind 
that  Florence  Moreland  had  found  her,  and, 
since  the  latter's  arrival  in  Chicago  she  had 
striven  unsuccessfully  to  dispel  the  spirit  of 
depression  which  had  taken  possession  of  her 
friend. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  day  following  the 
performance  of  "Otello,"  Florence,  cold  and 
rosy  from  tobogganing,  burst  into  the  draw 
ing  room.  She  expected  to  find  Marion  in 
one  of  her  moods,  and  she  was  astonished 
to  find  her  dressed  to  go  out  and  carelessly 
strumming  on  the  piano.  Marion  looked  up, 
and,  seeing  Florence,  burst  into  laughter  at 
her  tousled  locks  and  red  cheeks.  "You  had 
better  stand  over  the  register  and  get  thawed 
out,"  Marion  remarked  cheerfully;  then,  thump 
ing  the  piano  again,  she  continued:  "How  was 
the  slide?" 

"Capital!  and  hundreds  of  people  there," 
was  Florence's  reply.  Then,  wondering  at 
Marion's  sudden  change  of  spirits,  she  added, 
"Are  you  going  to  the  McSeeney's  tea?" 

"Yes;  I  intend  to  take  Mr.  Grahame." 

"I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  get  there  the 
best  way  I  can." 


88  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

"You  can  take  the  brougham.  What  do 
you  think  of  him?" 

"Who,  the  brougham?" 

"No;  Mr.  Grahame,  you  silly." 

"O,  he  is  like  many  New  Yorkers,  one-third 
clothes  and  two-thirds  conceit.  I  asked  him 
if  he  thought  he  should  like  Chicago,  and, 
knowing  I  was  from  the  East,  he  confidently 
replied:  'It  is  not  New  York,  you  know,  but 
I  suppose  one  can  get  used  to  anything  in 
time/  " 

"I  don't  care,  I  like  him,"  Marion  replied. 

"Hush,  here  he  comes,"  said  Florence  hur 
riedly. 

A  servant  announced  Mr.  Grahame,  and  as 
Duncan  entered,  Marion  said  in  a  somewhat 
surprised  tone,  "Are  you  always  so  prompt  ?" 

"No;  it  is  quite  a  mistake,  I  assure  you," 
he  replied.  "I  will  not  be  so  vulgarly  exact 
next  time." 

"It  is  a  provincialism  quite  permissible  in 
the  West,"  said  Marion. 

"Indeed!  But  I  have  not  yet  said  good 
afternoon,"  replied  Duncan;  "have  you  recov 
ered  from  the  dissipation  of  last  evening?" 

"Quite." 


A  CHALLENGE.  89 

"And  you.  Miss  Moreland?" 

"Look  at  her  cheeks,  Mr.  Grahame,"  inter 
jected  Marion. 

"I  see  it  is  needless  to  ask  about  your 
health,  Miss  Moreland,  but  I  trust  I  may  say 
I  admire  your  snow  costume." 

"You  must  have  a  fondness  for  brilliant 
colors,"  said  Florence. 

"Decidedly;  shades  and  tints  were  made 
for  funerals  and  frowns,"  he  replied. 

"I  don't  like  to  interrupt,"  interposed  Ma 
rion  hurriedly,  "but  I  fear  it  is  time  for  Mr. 
Grahame  and  me  to  be  going." 

"Are  you  not  to  accompany  us,  Miss  More- 
land?"  said  Duncan. 

"Not  in  this  costume,  certainly,"  laughed 
Florence. 

"Then  I  shall  say  au  revoir" 

"Where  am  I  to  be  taken?"  said  Duncan, 
as  he  and  Marion  descended  the  steps  of  the 
house. 

"To  meet  my  most  bitter  enemy,  Mrs. 
McSeeney,"  she  replied. 

"I  admire  your  courage,"  he  said. 

"O,  there  is  no  danger  of  bodily  harm,  as 
we  are  quite  on  speaking  terms;  a  sort  of 
armed  neutrality,  you  know." 


90  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

"Am  I  to  be  used  as  an  offensive  or  a  de 
fensive  weapon?"  Duncan  asked. 

"Neither;  I  shall  use  you  as  a  flag  of  truce; 
but  whatever  happens  don't  you  dare  to  say 
she  is  good  looking  or  brilliant." 

"I  promise,"  he  answered,  "but  please  tell 
me  who  she  is  and  what  she  is." 

"You  ought  to  know  her;  she  is  a  New 
Yorker, — at  least  she  was  three  years  ago — 
her  husband  is  the  president  of  an  elevated 
railway  company  and  made  her  come  here  to 
live.  She  hates  Chicago,  and  takes  her  re 
venge  by  saying  disagreeable  things  about  it. 
For  some  reason  she  has  singled  me  out  as 
the  particular  object  of  her  antipathy  and  you 
can  imagine  there  is  no  love  lost  between  us. 
But  here  we  are  at  her  door,  so  I  can't  tell 
you  any  more." 

They  had  reached  an  awning-covered  door 
way  where  numerous  carriages  were  arriving 
and  depositing  their  occupants.  They  as 
cended  the  steps  and  were  ushered  into  a 
crowded  room  where  a  well  dressed  throng 
were  jostling  about  and  trying  to  keep  off 
one  another's  toes.  Near  the  door  Mrs.  Mc- 
Seeney  was  undergoing  the  laborious  exper- 


A  CHALLENGE.  91 

ience  of  greeting  her  friends,  while  about  the 
room  Mrs.  Nobody  could  be  heard  cackling 
loudly  and  Mrs.  Somebody  peeping  meekly, 
while  Mr.  Smart  was  smirking  and  Mr.  Plain 
was  awkwardly  striving  to  interest  ugly  Miss 
Croesus.  It  was  a  prattling,  garrulous  so 
ciety.  The  world  over  it  is  the  same,  differ 
entiated  by  race  and  place,  perhaps,  but  still 
society. 

Duncan  was  taken  about  and  introduced 
to  scores  of  people  whose  names  he  did  not 
even  hear.  A  smile  here  and  a  word  there 
was  all  he  had  time  for,  but  he  managed  to 
meet  all  "the  people  one  should  know,"  and, 
being  a  new  man,  caused  a  flutter  of  expec 
tation  among  the  women.  "Who  is  he?" 
"What  is  he?"  "Where  is  he  from?"  were  the 
questions  asked  by  all,  but  they  scarcely  re 
ceived  a  satisfactory  answer  before  Marion 
hurried  Duncan  into  an  adjoining  room  where 
numerous  pretty  girls  were  dispensing  that 
universal  anodyne  of  modern  life,  tea.  What 
should  we  moderns  do  without  tea?  It  is  the 
prop  of  society,  and  without  this  precious 
Chinese  plant  we  might  still  be  cupping  the 
sack,  and  beating  our  wives  between  the 


92  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

draughts.  In  fact  a  noted  moralist  has  said 
that  "tea  has  checked  our  boisterous  revels, 
raised  women  to  a  new  position,  refined  man 
ners,  and  softened  the  character  of  men." 
Perhaps!  but  let  a  man  with  a  full  cup  of 
tea,  and  the  spoon  balanced  on  the  edge  of 
the  saucer,  try  to  rise  from  a  low  chair  and 
shake  hands;  then  ask  him  what  he  thinks 
about  the  effect  of  tea  on  a  man's  character. 

After  responding  scores  of  times  to  the 
question,  "How  do  you  like  Chicago?"  with 
the  reply,  "I  don't  know,"  and  after  answering 
quite  as  frequently  and  in  the  same  manner 
the  question,  "How  long  do  you  expect  to 
remain  here  ?"  Duncan  was  finally  rescued  by 
Marion  Sanderson  and  taken  away. 

"You  don't  often  have  strangers  here,  do 
you?"  Duncan  gasped  when  they  were  outside. 
"I  seem  as  much  of  a  curiosity  as  a  white 
man  on  the  Congo." 

"Not  quite  so  bad  as  that,"  Marion  laughed, 
"though  I  must  confess  a  new  man  is  an 
attraction  here,  especially  at  a  tea,  where 
there  are  at  least  two  women  to  every  one 
of  the  other  sex." 

"I  suppose  the  natives  are  frightened  away." 


A   CHALLENGE.  93 

"No,  you  wretch,  they  are  all  in  business.'* 

uLucky  beggars." 

Marion  gave  him  a  side  glance  intended  to 
be  annihilating,  and  silently  walked  the  few 
remaining  steps.  When  they  reached  her  door 
she  stopped  and  said,  somewhat  coldly:  "Won't 
you  come  in,  Mr.  Grahame?" 

"I  certainly  will,  as  I  cannot  leave  with  the 
mercury  of  your  manners  so  low." 

"You  surely  do  not  fancy  that  you  can 
make  it  rise." 

"I  do,"  he  said  confidently. 

Marion  looked  at  him  scornfully,  but  it  was 
an  assumed  scorn;  as  to  herself  she  admitted 
a  fondness  for  assurance  like  Duncan's.  Flor 
ence  Moreland  would  have  called  it  presump 
tion,  but  Marion  felt  that  it  indicated  a  strong 
nature  worthy  of  careful  analysis.  Her  man 
ner  was  often  the  naivete  of  inexperience. 
She  fancied  that  she  knew  the  world,  but  her 
knowledge  was  theoretically  culled  from  her 
yellow-covered  romances.  She  frequently  al 
lowed  men  a  freedom  of  speech  which  might 
be  misunderstood  at  times,  and  excused  her 
self  by  the  thought  that  such  carelessness 
became  a  woman  of  the  world.  She  courted 


94  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

admiration  because  she  felt  it  to  be  her  due, 
and  in  her  search  for  experiences  of  the  world 
she  often  displayed  an  artlessness  which  was 
singularly  liable  to  be  misinterpreted  by  the 
men  with  whom  she  came  in  contact. 

Just  inside  the  door  on  the  right  of  the  hall 
was  a  wee  room  decorated  in  Louis  Quinze 
style,  and  into  this  they  went.  Delicate  and 
cozy,  with  a  polished  floor,  a  leopard's  skin 
rug,  soft  tinted  walls,  white  and  gold  wood 
work,  a  tiny  open  fire,  a  brocade  screen,  a 
chair  or  two  and  a  tete-a-tete  seat, — it  was,  in 
fact,  a  delightful  expression  of  Marion's  taste. 

"Charming,"  said  Duncan  as  he  sat  down 
opposite  Marion  on  the  tete-a-tete  and  looked 
about  him. 

"I  am  glad  something  pleases  you,"  she  re 
plied  as  she  threw  aside  her  jacket.  "Your 
assurance  amazes  me,"  she  continued.  "Last 
night  you  told  me  you  had  been  about  collect 
ing  bits  of  gossip  about  me  in  order  to 
understand  my  character,  and  now  you  coolly 
inform  me  that  you  are  capable  of  influencing 
my  feelings.  I  ought  to  detest  you." 

Duncan  silently  looked  with  his  large,  grey 
eyes  into  her  face  for  a  moment  and  then 
said,  "I  wish  you  would." 


A  CHALLENGE.  95 

"Why?"  she  questioned  wonderingly. 

"Because  we  might  end  by  being  friends." 

"A  repellent  manner  of  attracting,  certainly," 
she  replied. 

"Exactly!  kindred  natures  always  repel  one 
another  with  a  force  equal  to  their  subsequent 
attraction." 

"That  sounds  like  a  proposition  in  physics." 

"In  metaphysics,  perhaps,"  he  answered.  "It 
means  that  if  we  first  quarrel  we  shall  eventu 
ally  become  sympathetic  friends." 

"Polemical  enemies,  I  should  say,"  Marion 
replied  sharply. 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  am  not  willing  to  admit  I  am  of 
so  changeable  a  nature,"  she  replied. 

"A  mediocre  nature  will  never  change;  an 
uncommon  one  invariably  does,"  he  said  con 
fidently. 

"Another  slur." 

"A  compliment,  I  should  say,  as  your  opinion 
of  me  will  change." 

"On  what  do  you  base  your  presumption  ?" 
she  said  with  assumed  indignation. 

He  was  silent.  She  glanced  about  the  room. 
It  was  nearly  dark  and  the  fire  was  flickering 


96  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

on  the  hearth.  Unconsciously  she  looked  up 
as  though  seeking  an  answer  to  her  question. 
Again  two  grey  eyes  looked  softly  through 
the  twilight  into  her  own.  "Because  I  feel 
certain  of  it,"  he  said  quietly  and  emphatically, 
as  though  in  answer  to  her  questioning  glance. 

"Then  you  shall  acknowledge  yourself  mis 
taken,"  she  slowly  replied.  "I'll  give  you  a 
fair  chance.  Will  you  dine  with  us  on  Friday?" 

"A  day  of  ill  luck,  but  I  accept,"  he  re 
plied  as  he  rose  to  go.  "Shall  it  be  a  truce 
in  the  interim?"  he  added,  offering  his  hand. 

"If  you  like,"  she  replied. 

"Good-by,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand.  "It 
shall  be  a  fair  game  and  I  will  play  to  win." 

"But  you  will  lose,"  she  answered. 

Her  eyes  followed  him  as  he  left  the  room. 
"An  interesting  nature  to  study,"  she  thought, 
"but  I  wish  he  would  not  look  at  me  in  that 
way." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

SPANISH   CASTLES. 

Mrs.  Sanderson  had  arranged  designedly  the 
dinner  to  which  she  had  invited  Duncan.  He 
had  been  much  in  her  thoughts  in  the  interim, 
and,  being  anxious  to  see  what  method  he 
would  adopt  to  overcome  her  assumed  enmity, 
she  looked  forward  to  their  next  meeting  with 
curiosity.  She  was  a  strong  impressionist, 
and  when  she  had  first  heard  him  described 
by  her  New  York  friend,  Sibyl  Wright,  she 
had  mentally  resolved  that  he  was  a  person 
she  would  one  day  meet  and  like.  She  had 
also  formed  a  picture  of  him  in  her  mind, 
and,  curiously  enough,  the  likeness  had  been 
exact.  She  now  felt  that  her  impression  had 
been  a  presentiment,  and  this  thought  ap 
pealed  to  her  peculiarly  constituted  nature. 
She  wanted  to  know  Duncan  better  and  ana 
lyze  his  character,  so  she  arranged  her  table 
to  further  this  desire,  placing  him  at  her  right, 
and,  as  Florence  Moreland  did  not  like  him, 

7  97 


98  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

she  was  given  the  next  seat;  next  to  Florence 
she  put  Harold  Wainwright,  feeling  sure  that 
they  would  both  be  oblivious  to  their  neigh 
bors,  while  about  the  table  she  maliciously 
scattered  a  trio  of  drawing-room  musicians. 
There  was  Herr  von  Steubenblatter,  a  musi 
cal  professor,  Mdlle.  de  Longchamps,  an  ama 
teur  soprano,  and  Mr.  John  Smith,  who,  after 
studying  singing  in  Italy  and  passing  five  years 
without  an  engagement,  had  now  assumed  the 
more  euphonious  name  of  Signor  Frivogini. 
Besides  these  there  were  several  inoffensive 
people  who  never  said  much,  but  wrho  would 
consider  it  their  duty  to  applaud  the  musi 
cians  and  keep  them  employed  after  dinner, 
so  that  Marion  and  Duncan  might  talk  unob 
served. 

Unfortunately  Duncan's  manner  was  not  at 
all  what  she  had  expected.  He  talked  to  her 
about  the  most  conventional  and  trivial  sub 
jects  in  a  most  conventional  and  trivial  way, 
until  about  the  second  entree,  when  he  entered 
into  a  literary  argument  with  Florence  which 
lasted  during  the  entire  dinner.  Both  Marion 
and  Wainwright  considered  themselves  very 
much  abused,  and  Marion  in  particular  thought 


SPANISH  CASTLES.  99 

that  somehow  her  elaborate  plans  had  failed 
and  that  Duncan  was  purposely  neglecting 
her.  She  endeavored  to  listen  to  a  discourse 
on  the  relative  merits  of  canvas-back  and 
red-head,  delivered  by  an  experienced  diner 
on  her  left,  but  she  felt  much  relieved  when 
she  was  able  to  make  the  signal  for  the  ladies 
to  file  out.  When  the  men  had  finished  their 
cigars  and  found  their  way  to  the  drawing- 
room  she  boldly  conducted  Herr  von  Steu- 
benblatter  to  the  piano,  ^  trusting,  from  her 
experience  of  the  opera,  that  Duncan  would 
disregard  the  music  and  talk  to  her.  Marion 
had  provided  a  formidable  array  of  drawing- 
room  musicians,  but  they  failed  to  serve  the 
purpose  for  which  they  were  invited.  They 
played  and  sang  in  continuous  succession,  but 
Duncan,  instead  of  taking  a  seat  beside  her 
and  making  the  music  a  cloak  for  conversa 
tion,  went  to  the  other  side  of  the  room  and 
sat  down  near  pretty,  smirking  Miss  Ender. 
There  he  chatted  assiduously  and  made  her 
giggle  so  loudly  that  Herr  von  Steubenblatter 
sent  withering  glances  through  his  gold  bowed 
spectacles  which  made  the  poor  girl  blush  and 
stop  simpering  for  two  entire  minutes. 


100  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

Marion  was  furious  with  everything,  but 
with  Duncan  most  of  all.  She  tried  to  con 
ceal  her  anger  and  listen  to  the  insipid  chat 
ter  of  an  under-graduate,  but  her  replies  were 
generalities,  delivered  without  reference  to 
the  sophomore's  platitudes,  and  her  thoughts 
were  entirely  across  the  room.  "What  did 
Duncan  mean  by  such  negligence?  Why  did 
he  challenge  her  to  a  verbal  combat  and  then 
refuse  an  engagement?  Why  had  he  appeared 
to  be  interested  in  her  on  one  day  and  then 
utterly  indifferent  the  next?  It  was  in  form 
ing  and  revolving  such  questions  in  her  mind 
that  she  passed  the  evening,  and,  meanwhile, 
the  harmless  college  boy  struggled  and  sput 
tered  on. 

At  one  end  of  the  Sanderson  drawing-room 
was  a  settee  placed  behind  a  few  palms;  al 
though  it  was  in  the  room,  it  was  sufficiently 
hidden  to  remove  people  sitting  there  from 
the  observation  of  others.  When  music  had 
been  suggested  Florence  Moreland  and  Harold 
Wainwright  had  wandered  toward  this  seat. 
The  two  had  been  childhood  friends  and  in 
later  years  the  intimacy  had  continued.  Har 
old  had  been  left  an  orphan  without  fortune. 


SPANISH  CASTLES.  101 

and  Florence  had  always  taken  a  deep  inter 
est  in  his  success. 

After  leaving  college  Harold  had  come  to 
the  western  metropolis  and  by  hard  and  cred 
itable  work  had  built  up  a  flourishing  law- 
practice.  He  wras  only  twenty-seven  and  pos 
sessed  in  a  marked  degree  the  best  qualities 
of  young  American  manhood.  He  was  one  of 
those  young  men  so  numerous  in  Western 
cities,  whose  earnest  and  energetic  characters, 
untouched  by  Old  World  follies  and  vices, 
make  them  the  heirs  of  the  pioneer  of  the 
past.  Florence  had  admired  Harold  as  a  sister 
might  admire  a  strong,  splendid  brother.  She 
trusted  and  looked  up  to  him,  and  she  often 
confided  her  thoughts  to  him.  He  was  a  sym 
pathetic  friend,  but  that  was  all;  she,  at  least, 
was  not  a  lover. 

"Do  you  know,  Harold,"  Florence  said,  as 
they  took  their  seats  on  the  settee,  "that  we 
have  not  had  one  of  our  old  talks  since  you 
were  home  last  summer.  There  has  been  a 
succession  of  bothersome  people  to  interfeie 
ever  since  I  arrived.  Tell  me,  are  you  work 
ing  as  hard  as  ever?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  "I  am  still  toiling  away, 
but  to  what  end  I  don't  know." 


.102  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

"That  doesn't  sound  like  you,   Harold." 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

"Because  you  are  not  the  man  to  mind  the 
bumps  in  life's  road.  You  can  see  beyond 
them." 

Harold  was  silent;  he  seemed  thoughtful; 
a  little  sigh  escaped  him.  "Can  I,  Florence?" 
he  finally  said.  "You  know  me  better  than 
I  know  myself.  What  can  I  see?" 

"A  successful  career." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"No;  friends." 

"Of  what  use  are  they?" 

"Dr.  Johnson  called  friendship  'the  cordial 
drop  that  makes  the  nauseous  draught  of  life 
go  down'." 

"He  was  wrong." 

"Why,  Harold !  you  forget  that  I  am  your 
friend." 

"No,  Florence,  I  don't;  I  wish  I  could." 

"How  strangely  you  act  to-night,"  she  re 
plied  in  puzzled  tones.  "I  don't  understand 
you." 

"That  cordial  drop  of  friendship  is  a  poison, 
sweet,  subtle,  and  deadly,"  he  answered  mourn 
fully. 


SPANISH  CASTLES.  103 

Florence  drew  back,  startled.  "Harold,  you 
forget  the  past,"  she  said  anxiously. 

"I  wish  I  could,"  he  replied  sadly.  "I  wish 
you  were  not  my  friend." 

"Why?"  she  asked,  frightened,  and  almost 
afraid  to  hear  the  reply. 

"Because  I  love  you,  Florence,"  he  slowly 
and  earnestly  replied.  "If  you  were  not  my 
dearest  friend  you  might  love  me,  too." 

She  looked  wonderingly  into  his  face,  almost 
expecting  to  read  there  that  his  words  were 
in  jest.  She  was  so  startled  that  the  full 
meaning  of  what  he  said  did  not,  at  first, 
appear  to  her,  but  slowly  she  realized  that 
this  friendship  that  had  lasted  so  long  and 
had  been  so  sweet  must  end.  She  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands  as  though  hoping 
to  hide  this  thought  from  her  mind.  "Why 
did  you  say  it?  Why  did  you  say  it?"  she 
moaned.  "It  was  so  sweet  before." 

"It  was  in  my  heart,  dearest;  it  has  been 
there  a  very  long  time.  I  have  tried  to  keep 
it  friendship,  but  I  couldn't."  Harold  slowly 
rose  and  stood  beside  her.  "Forgive  me,"  he 
continued.  "I  couldn't  help  it,  Florence;  I 
couldn't." 


104  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

She  took  his  hand;  it  was  cold.  "Forgive 
you,"  she  said,  "I  have  nothing  to  forgive/' 

His  hand  tightened  about  hers.  "I  love  you, 
Florence,"  he  said.  "Will  you  be  my  wife?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  full  into 
his  face.  "Would  you  marry  your  best  friend?" 
she  asked,  her  voice  trembling  slightly. 

Calmly  he  returned  her  glance.  "No,"  he 
replied.  "Not  unless  she  brought  me  the 
same  love  I  gave." 

"Then  I  cannot  promise  to  be  your  wife," 
she  said  hesitatingly,  as  though  the  words 
were  painful. 

He  released  her  hand  slowly.  "May  I  hope 
that  some  day  it  will  be  different?" 

"Let  us  both  hope  so,"  she  replied.  They 
remained  silent  and  motionless,  each  feeling 
that  an  epoch  of  life  had  come;  each  won 
dering  what  futurity  concealed.  Perhaps  a 
minute  passed,  though  it  seemed  much  longer, 
then  Florence  spoke.  "We  had  better  not 
remain  here,  Harold,  the  world  sometimes 
misunderstands  even  friends." 

He  walked  silently  beside  her,  back  to  where 
the  others  were.  Duncan  saw  them  approach 
ing  and  took  the  opportunity  to  leave  Miss 


SPANISH  CASTLES.  105 

Ender.  Harold  felt  that  he  could  not  endure 
the  laughter  and  merriment  about  him;  so 
he  left  Florence  with  Duncan  and  wandered 
off  to  the  dark,  silent  library  across  the  hall. 
Florence,  too,  wanted  to  be  alone;  but  she 
could  see  no  way  to  evade  Duncan,  and  so 
she  was  left  to  talk  to  a  man  for  whom  she 
had  an  instinctive  distaste. 

"I  see  you  are  independent  in  society  as 
well  as  in  politics,  Miss  Moreland,"  Duncan 
said,  as  soon  as  Harold  had  left  them. 

"In  what  way?"  she  replied  inquiringly. 

"Instead  of  remaining  here  to  be  bored  by 
bad  music,  you  were  independent  enough  to 
desert." 

"Perhaps  the  bad  music  drove  me  away. 
Real  independence  cannot  be  driven." 

"Even  in  that  you  are  original;  society  is 
not  driven,  it  meekly  follows  its  leaders." 

"You  seem  decided  to  have  me  a  caprice  of 
nature,"  she  replied. 

"I  think  you  are." 

"Is  that  impudence  or  irony?" 

"Neither.  I  am  an  evolutionist  and  you 
aid  my  theories.  I  believe  one  of  the  proofs  of 
Darwinism  lies  in  the  imitative  sense  possessed 


106  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

by  the  individuals  composing  American  soci 
ety.  When  some  strange  animal  from  across 
the  water  comes  among  us,  we  try  to  copy 
every  grimace  and  action,  until  someone  else 
arrives  with  new  affectations  and  mannerisms, 
when  we  begin  all  over  again.  We,  as  a  race, 
are  not  sufficiently  developed  to  possess  orig 
inality;  we  are  still  a  species  of  the  genus 
ape.  Now  you,  Miss  Moreland,  are  the  only 
member  of  American  society  I  have  yet  dis 
covered  who  is  independent  enough  to  pos 
sess  original  and  patriotic  ideas.  You  are  an 
American  of  position  and  yet  not  an  ape,  so 
you  must  be  a  connecting  link  between  us 
and  the  more  highly  developed  societies  of 
Europe." 

"I  think  that  your  conclusions  are  some 
what  erroneous,"  she  replied.  "I  admit  that 
the  society  that  you  describe  is  typical  of  the 
descent  of  man,  but  not  in  a  Darwinian  sense. 
It  marks  a  descension  from  the  higher  plane 
reached  by  the  vigorous  pioneers  who  planted 
and  reared  our  social  tree.  The  leaves  to 
ward  the  East,  which  have  breathed  the  fetid 
air  of  Europe,  have  shriveled  and  decayed, 
but  toward  the  West  they  are  still  kept  green 


SPANISH  CASTLES.  107 

and  vigorous  by  the  pure,  native  breezes. 
Some  people  seem  to  admire  the  varied  brill 
iancy  of  the  fading  foliage,  but  I  enjoy  the 
vivid  native  color." 

"Aut  Americanus  aut  nullus  should  be  your 
motto,"  he  replied. 

"Could  I  have  a  better?" 

"You  might  say  V Americaine  cest  moi.  No 
one  of  your  sex  and  surroundings  would  dis 
pute  the  pretension." 

"You  compliment  me,  but  not  my  sex. 
Millions  of  my  country-women  would  com 
pete  for  that  distinction." 

"My  observations  have  been  confined  to 
society  in  its  restricted  sense;  I  am  not,  I 
acknowledge,  the  mouth-piece  of  the  rabble." 

"Since  you  admit  your  ability  to  act  as 
society's  mouth-piece,  how  do  you  define  so 
ciety?" 

"Society  is  a  limited  liability  company  en 
gaged  in  the  production  of  snobs.  Formerly 
its  shares  were  non-transferable,  but  financial 
straits  necessitated  the  placing  of  the  common 
stock  upon  the  open  market;  the  preferred 
stock,  however,  is  still  held  by  the  heirs  of 
the  original  incorporators.  The  Anglo-Saxon 


108  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

company  has  its  head  office  in  London,  with 
agencies  in  the  various  cities  of  the  United 
Kingdom,  America,  and  the  Colonies;  Albert 
Edward  Guelph,  Esq.,  is  chairman  of  the  execu 
tive  committee,  and  the  most  refined  products 
of  the  corporation  are  sealed  and  labeled  by 
his  own  hand.  There  are  two  distinct  stages 
in  the  process  of  manufacture,  called  respect 
ively  toadying  and  snubbing,  which  must  be 
successfully  undergone  before  the  perfected 
article  is  obtained.  For  instance,  raw  material 
is  gathered  at  an  American  agency  and  after 
passing  through  the  first  toady  stages  it  is 
put  through  the  more  intricate  process  of 
snubbing;  then  at  a  certain  stage  of  maturity 
it  is  sent  to  the  London  office  to  be  again 
subjected  to  a  more  refined  toady  process. 
Unfortunately  the  American  material,  being 
supplied  by  purchasers  of  the  common  stock, 
can  never  reach  a  more  refined  stage,  so,  after 
receiving  the  toady  cachet  of  the  chairman, 
it  goes  back  to  America  again  where  it  is 
put  upon  the  market  as  a  superior  imported 
article." 

"Then  I  am  to  infer,  Mr.  Grahame,"  Flor 
ence  replied   sarcastically,  "that  an  American 


SPANISH  CASTLES.  109 

is  doomed  always  to  remain  a  toady,  and  can 
never  hope  to  attain  the  distinction  of  being 
a  full-fledged  snob.  I  do  not  think  your  pros 
pectus  is  sufficiently  attractive  to  induce  me 
to  purchase  stock,  at  least,  not  until  the  native 
industry  is  sufficiently  thriving  to  manufacture 
the  higher  grades  at  home  and  exclude  the 
foreign  brands  from  our  market."  Then  she 
left  him  abruptly  and  walked  toward  a  group 
of  girls  who  were  discussing  the  coming  "Pa 
tricians'  "  ball. 

When  a  man  of  Duncan's  nature  receives 
a  rebuff,  he  is  amused  or  angered,  but  not 
humiliated.  Duncan  regarded  Florence's  pat 
riotism  as  a  mere  pose,  and  her  dislike  of 
him  he  considered  amusing;  so  when  she 
thus  coolly  left  him,  he  merely  laughed  and 
turned  away  without  being  in  the  slightest 
degree  offended.  As  for  Florence,  she  felt 
in  no  mood  for  conversation,  and  had  taken 
the  first  opportunity  to  rid  herself  of  a  per 
son  whom  she  considered  actually  displeasing. 
Duncan,  feeling  it  was  expedient  to  smooth 
the  feathers  he  had  purposely  rumpled,  ap 
proached  Marion,  and,  assuming  a  penitent 
air,  he  sat  down  beside  her  and  said  with 


110  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

mock  humility:  "Am  I  not  to  be  permitted 
to  address  you  at  all;  does  your  hatred  extend 
that  far?" 

"You  haven't  tried,"  said  Marion,  her  resent 
ment  increasing. 

"How  could  I?"  replied  Duncan.  "You 
seemed  so  engrossed  by  that  young  collegian's 
charms,  that  you  could  scarcely  expect  me, 
whom  you  avow  to  be  an  enemy,  to  increase 
your  wrath  by  interrupting." 

"I  think  you  were  mistaken,"  answered 
Marion.  "You  said  you  intended  to  make  me 
your  friend  even  against  my  will.  There 
was  no  avowed  enmity  on  my  part;  I  merely 
considered  your  method  of  procedure  some 
what  eccentric." 

"Indeed!     In  what  way,  may  I  ask?" 

"It  was  you  who  challenged.  Do  you  ex 
pect  a  victory  without  an  engagement?" 

"Those  were  the  tactics  the  Russians  used 
against  Napoleon." 

"Coldness  was  their  chief  weapon,"  Marion 
replied,  "and  you  certainly  are  well  armed 
with  it." 

"You  forget  the  fire  at  Russia's  heart." 

"Was  it  not  the  fire  of  hate?"  she  asked. 


SPANISH  CASTLES.  Ill 

"No,"  he  said.  "The  fire  of  the  heart  is 
love,  and  hate  is  but  its  ashes."  His  voice 
had  softened  as  he  spoke,  and  Marion  felt 
that  his  eyes  were  scanning  her  thoughts;  she 
turned  her  head  away,  but  her  eyes  were 
drawn  slowly  back  until  they  for  a  moment 
met  his  glance.  The  knowledge  that  anyone 
could  so  influence  her  frightened  her;  but  it 
was  a  fascinating  fear  which  tempted  investi 
gation.  She  was  about  to  reply  when  she 
became  conscious  of  the  presence  of  others; 
they  were  departing  guests,  who  announced 
a  breaking  up  of  the  party,  and  Marion  was 
obliged  to  exchange  conventional  civilities 
with  her  friends  until  the  room  was  slowly 
emptied.  Harold  had  hurried  away  alone, 
without  even  a  word  with  Florence.  The 
poor  fellow  had  not  the  heart  to  speak  to 
her  again  that  night,  and  he  felt  that  she 
would  understand  the  reason  for  his  rudeness. 
Duncan  was  thus  left  to  his  own  resources, 
and,  seeine  that  Roswell  Sanderson  and  Flor- 

o 

ence  had  gone  into  the  library,  and  that  all 
the  guests  had  departed,  he  made  the  con 
ventional  move  to  leave. 

"Don't    hurry,"    said    Marion,    "it    is    only 


112  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

eleven  o'clock,  and  you  see  I  am  left  quite 
alone." 

"I  will  remain,"  replied  Duncan,  as  he  took 
a  seat  beside  her  on  a  dainty  Louis  Seize  sofa, 
"because  I  have  a  favor  to  ask." 

"A  favor  of  an  enemy,"  said  Marion,  with 
an  air  of  astonishment. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "Like  the  Spartans  I 
cannot  fight  when  the  omens  are  unpropitious, 
so  I  wish  to  beg  the  favor  of  a  truce  and  to 
ask  that  during  it  the  hostiles  may  dance  the 
Patricians'  cotillon  together." 

"A  dance  of  hostiles  would  be  a  war  dance, 
would  it  not  ?" 

"War  is  a  cruel  word,"  he  replied.  "To 
me  the  dance  is  symbolic  of  the  highest  sen 
timent." 

"That  is  religion,  is  it  not?"  she  asked, 
laughingly. 

"No;  a  higher  sentiment  than  religion  is 
love." 

"Of  that  there  are  many  kinds." 

"There  is  but  one  kind,"  he  answered. 
"Other  feelings  may  receive  that  name,  but 
they  are  base  alloys  of  the  pure  sentiment." 

"And  what  is  this  perfect  love  of  which 
you  seem  to  know  so  much?" 


SPANISH  CASTLES.  113 

"It  is  the  irresistible  union  of  two  similar 
natures." 

"Why  irresistible?"  Marion  asked. 

"Because  all  organism  is  a  union  of  limit 
less  atoms,  which  are  brought  together  out  of 
chaos  by  the  attraction  of  similarity." 

"That  is  a  novel  theory,  but  what  has  it 
to  do  with  love?"  she  questioned. 

"Love  is  the  idealization  of  that  theory. 
Man  and  woman  are  the  most  perfect  blend 
ing  of  the  atoms,  and  love  is  the  transcendent 
union  of  their  two  natures." 

"And  is  there  no  creator?"  Marion  asked. 

"None  but  love.  Love  is  the  symbolism  of 
the  creative  power;  love  is  God." 

Marion  laughed;  his  theory  was  too  absurd 
to  be  taken  seriously,  but  somehow  it  pleased 
her.  "Have  you  felt  this  irresistible  love 
power?"  she  asked. 

"I  must  first  find  my  affinity,"  he  replied 
evasively. 

"Have  you  not  met  her  yet?"  said  Marion, 
looking  up  with  an  air  of  astonishment. 

Duncan's  eyes  quickly  caught  her  glance. 
"I  think  I  have,"  he  replied  in  a  way  that  was 
at  once  bold,  insinuating,  and  tender.  Marion 


114  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

turned  her  head  away  quickly  and  a  tinge  of 
color  came  into  her  cheeks.  It  was  resent 
ment,  but  somehow  a  sense  of  pleasure  tin 
gled  amid  the  anger.  "You  are  an  enigma/' 
she  said,  ashamed  at  having  colored.  "I 
thought  you  were  a  cynical  speculator,  but 
now  you  seem  a  fanciful  dreamer." 

"You  must  guess  again,"  he  replied.  "I 
am  neither  a  cynic  nor  a  visionist." 

"What  are  you?"  she  asked  abruptly. 

"I  am  a  disciple  of  love,"  he  replied. 

"Then  I  was  right  in  calling  you  a  dreamer, 
for  love  itself  is  a  fantasm  inspired  by  hope 
or  memory." 

"You  are  a  Philistine,"  he  said  softly. 
"Some  day  you  may  feel,  and  that  is  to  be 
lieve." 

"Che  sara  sara,  but  I  have  my  doubts," 
she  replied.  Duncan's  glance  was  contradic 
tory,  but  he  did  not  reply.  After  a  moment 
of  silence  he  rose  to  leave.  "Is  the  truce  to 
be  granted  ?"  he  said.  "Do  we  dance  to 
gether?" 

"Yes,  if  you  wish  it  so,"  replied  Marion. 

"Then  to-morrow  we  meet  at  the  ball. 
Remember  hostilities  have  ceased.  Good- 


SPANISH  CASTLES.  115 

night."  Marion  extended  her  hand  and  Dun 
can  held  it  for  a  moment.  "Don't  let  the  hate 
grow  too  strong,"  he  said  pleadingly. 

"It  couldn't,"  she  replied;  then  she  quickly 
withdrew  her  hand  and  turned  away. 

When  Duncan  reached  the  street  he  stopped 
to  light  a  cigar.  As  he  threw  the  match  away 
and  returned  his  match-safe  to  his  pocket,  he 
carelessly  soliloquized:  "When  a  moth  sees 
a  fire,  it  flutters  around  it  to  see  what  it  is 
like,  and  it  hasn't  sense  enough  to  keep  from 
getting  burned.  A  woman  is  much  the  same: 
excite  her  curiosity  by  the  flame  called  love; 
and  it  is  ten  to  one  she  gets  singed  before 
she  finds  out  what  it  is.  I  have  been  talking 
a  lot  of  trash,  but  it's  all  in  the  trade.  Talk 
sense  to  a  woman  and  treat  her  decently,  and 
she  thinks  you  are  a  muff;  talk  enigmatical 
bosh,  and  knock  her  about,  and  she  loves 
you.  They  are  all  alike.  No,  by  Jove!  they 
are  not;  Helen  Osgood  outclasses  them  all, 
and  she  has  'hands  for  any  sort'.  Oh,  well, 
as  the  Frenchman  says:  'if  you  haven't  got 
what  you  love,  love  what  you  have.'  The 
Sanderson  is  a  good  looker,  and  you  must 
have  sport,  Duncan,  old  man."  Then  shov- 


116  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

ing  his  stick  under  his  arm,  and  plunging  his 
hands  into  his  coat  pockets,  he  started  off 
at  a  swinging  pace  in  search  of  a  cab. 

Marion  had  remained  seated  where  she  and 
Duncan  had  been  together.  She  had  listened 
to  hear  the  door  close  behind  him,  and  then, 
her  face  resting  in  both  hands,  she  sat  think 
ing.  Her  imagination  rapidly  created  a  vision 
ary  structure  of  dazzling  possibilities,  but  the 
dismal  silence  which  follows  in  the  steps  of 
revelry  came,  and  with  it  unrest.  Quickly 
her  Spanish  castle  crumbled  and  faded  to  a 
lonely  ruin.  "It  is  always  so,"  she  thought; 
"it  is  always  so.  Like  children  at  a  panto 
mime,  who  picture  to  their  minds  brilliant 
jewels  in  the  fairy  queen's  tiara,  and  learn  in 
after  life  that  they  were  tawdry  counterfeits, 
we  imagine  ideal  gems  of  possibility  only  to 
find  the  reality  of  life  papier  mache  and  paint. 
Is  love  also  a  tinsel  that  tarnishes  at  the 
touch?  So  far  mine  has  been  so.  But  might 
it  not  be  different?  Yes,  but  the  thought  is 
wicked."  Marion  looked  hurriedly  about  her 
as  though  fearful  that  someone  might  have 
seen  the  thought  which  crept  into  her  mind. 
<(He  believes  in  love,"  she  continued.  "He 


SPANISH  CASTLES.  117 

says  the    right    one    exists.     I  wonder  if  it  is 
true." 

Florence  came  into  the  room  to  say  good 
night.  Marion  usually  enjoyed  repeating  her 
day's  experiences,  and  discussing  her  impres 
sions  with  her  friend,  and  Florence  knew  that 
at  such  times  she  was  expected  to  approve 
of  every  sentiment,  or  be  called  unsympa 
thetic,  but  when  Florence  kissed  her  good 
night  Marion  made  no  suggestion  about  talk 
ing  over  experiences,  and  as  neither  woman 
felt  inclined  for  an  exchange  of  confidences, 
Florence  hurried  away  to  her  room.  Marion's 
eyes  followed  her  as  she  left.  "She  acts 
strangely,"  she  thought;  "I  wonder  if  her 
friendship  could  change?  Perhaps,  for  we  are 
so  different.  No  one  understands  me,"  she 
sighed  after  a  moment.  "If  I  only  had  some 
one  I  could  trust  and  love."  A  man  stood  in 
the  doorway  behind  her.  He  heard  the  sigh, 
.  and  he  remained  for  a  moment  silently  think 
ing  of  the  time  when  she  had  promised  to  be 
his  wife.  Then  he  had  drawn  a  hopeful  pict 
ure  of  the  future,  a  picture  full  of  brightness 
and  sunshine,  with  a  loving  wife  for  the  cen 
tral  figure  and  happy,  romping  children  play- 


118  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

ing  about  her.  That  dream  had  flashed  like  a 
brilliant  light  which  blazes  for  a  moment  and 
dies  as  suddenly  away,  leaving  black,  charred 
ashes  to  mark  its  place. 

"Marion,"  he  said  gently. 

She  looked  up  startled.  "Is  it  only  you  ?" 
she  said,  with  just  a  tone  of  disappointment 
in  her  voice. 

"Yes,  it  is  only  I,"  he  answered.  "Shall  I 
ring  to  have  the  lights  turned  out?" 

"O,  I  suppose  so,"  she  sighed. 

A  servant  came  to  secure  the  house  for 
the  night.  When  he  appeared,  Marion  slowly 
followed  her  husband  upstairs,  and  as  they 
passed  Florence's  room,  she  saw  a  light  burn 
ing.  Usually  Marion  would  have  gone  in  to 
talk,  but  this  time  she  went  on  to  her  own 
apartment. 

Long  after  Marion  had  passed  that  light 
continued  to  burn.  With  her  dress  loosened 
and  her  soft  brown  hair  falling  over  her  white 
shoulders  Florence  sat  before  the  fire  thinking. 
Between  her  hands  was  a  picture.  It  was 
Harold's,  and  as  she  gazed  at  the  face  she 
seemed  to  hear  the  words:  "Florence,  I  love 
you;  if  you  were  not  my  dearest  friend,  you 


SPANISH  CASTLES.  119 

might  love  me  too.'*  "Why  did  he  say  it; 
why  did  he  say  it,"  she  murmured.  Then 
moments  from  her  childhood  came  softly  back 
to  her  mind,  and  she  saw  Harold,  her  old-time 
playmate,  grow  to  manhood.  "Playmate, 
friend,"  she  thought.  "Why  not  more  ?  Why 
not?"  she  repeated. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE   PATRICIANS. 

Perhaps  the  only  city  of  considerable  pro 
portions  in  which  the  rigorous  proprieties  of 
a  New  England  village  exist  side  by  side  with 
the  gorgeous  trappings  of  metropolitan  ism  is 
Chicago.  Its  growth  has  been  so  marvelous 
that  in  a  single  generation  the  simple  garb  of 
provincialism  has  been  exchanged  for  the  more 
imposing  mantle  of  a  great  city.  Streets  and 
boulevards  have  spread  forth  like  the  count 
less  antennae  of  some  mighty  monster;  gigantic 
structures  have  arisen  almost  as  at  the  touch  of 
magic,  and  ten  thousand  lanky  chimneys  have 
begun  to  belch  forth  black  and  sooty  smoke, 
all  within  the  memory  even  of  the  middle- 
aged  inhabitant.  Fifty  years  ago  Chicago  was 
a  frontier  town;  twenty  years  ago  a  fearful 
scourge  laid  her  in  ruins;  to-day  she  stands 
among  the  first  ten  of  the  world's  great  cities. 
Countless  forces  have  in  a  score  of  years 
heaped  up  a  mighty  metropolis,  and,  perhaps, 
120 


THE  PATRICIANS.  121 

it  is  not  surprising  to  find  almost  buried  be 
neath  this  gigantic  pile  the  simple  and  pure 
society  of  the  early  days. 

During  all  these  rapid  changes  the  older 
families  have  altered  little.  They  have  built 
more  pretentious  homes,  they  drive  more 
modern  equipages,  they  eat  more  elaborate 
dinners,  but  even  these  innovations  have  been 
reluctantly  received,  and  the  hearts  of  the  old 
residents  have  remained  untouched  by  fin  de 
sticle  looseness  and  cynicism.  In  no  older 
city  are  the  social  lines  more  strictly  drawn, 
and  year  after  year  the  same  faces  appear  at 
the  select  gatherings,  unconscious  of  the  rapid 
change  about  them.  Of  millionaires  there  are 
many,  but  the  foundations  of  their  fortunes 
were  laid  in  the  early  days  of  pioneering,  and 
if  occasionally  a  Croesus  of  recent  growth 
creeps  partly  in,  the  shoulders  turned  toward 
him  are  cold,  and  his  golden  key  never  quite 
unlocks  the  inner  doors.  Chicago  has  perhaps 
suffered  unduly  at  the  hands  of  cursory  and 
captious  critics,  but  its  society  should  not  be 
judged  by  a  hastily  written  paragraph  or  the 
clanking  chains  of  the  parvenu's  carriage. 
Whatever  be  its  faults,  and  they  are  doubtless 


122  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

many,  it  is  thoroughly  American,  and  slow  to 
accept  the  lax  scepticism  and  hollow  manners 
of  the  older  world.  It  is  still  too  young  to 
be  the  home  of  art  and  letters,  and  still  too 
sensible  to  breed  idlers.  Happy  city,  if  its 
society  could  continue  as  it  is,  unaffected, 
progressive,  and  moral;  but  the  naturalness  of 
Chicago  cannot  endure  forever;  already  Puritan 
simplicity  has  fought  the  first  skirmish  with 
bare-necked  folly  and  been  worsted.  French 
dresses  and  English  drags  have  come  to  stay; 
insincerity  and  disbelief  will  follow. 

The  best  society  is  hard  to  define,- — especi 
ally  in  America, — but  by  some  indescribable 
process  people  are  shaken  up,  and  so  sifted  into 
cliques  and  circles  that  they  become  myste 
riously  classified  and  labeled  without  the  scru 
tinizing  care  of  a  satin-coated  Lord  Chamber 
lain.  When  the  inhabitants  of  Chicago  were 
passed  through  the  social  sieve,  the  finest 
particles  formed  a  little  heap  labeled  "The  Pa 
tricians."  This  was  the  set  that  gave  the  most 
exclusive  subscription  dances,  and,  though 
there  were  other  organizations  which  might 
feel  strong  enough  to  compete  with  this  select 
assembly,  it  was  noticed  that  the  name  of  no 


THE  PATRICIANS.  123 

Patrician  was  ever  found  upon  another  list, 
and  no  outsider  ever  declined  to  become  a 
Patrician  subscriber.  There  is  a  classic  story 
which  says  that  when,  after  their  victory  at 
Salamis,  the  generals  of  the  various  Greek 
states  voted  the  prizes  for  distinguished  merit, 
each  assigned  the  first  place  of  excellence  to 
himself,  but  they  all  concurred  in  giving  their 
second  votes  to  Themistocles.  Were  the  Chi- 
cagoans  called  upon  to  vote  for  the  most 
exclusive  organization  of  their  city,  each  would 
probably  cast  his  first  vote  for  the  one  of 
which  he  is  a  member,  but  the  second  votes 
would  all  be  given  to  the  "Patricians."  It 
was  an  ancient  organization,  dating  from  be 
fore  the  fire,  and  its  membership  list  had 
been  sacredly  guarded  ever  since.  Simple  and 
informal  at  first,  it  had  gradually  assumed 
pretentious  proportions,  until  it  had  passed 
from  a  North  Side  hall,  cold  suppers,  lemon 
ade  and  nine  o'clock,  to  the  Hotel  Mazarin, 
terrapin,  brut  champagne,  and  eleven  o'clock. 
In  the  early  days  there  had  been  three  fid 
dlers  and  a  man  to  call  off,  but  now  there 
was  an  orchestra,  a  Hungarian  band  and  a 
cotillon:  "O  tempora,  O  mores!"  ulmitatores, 
servum  pecus" 


124  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

Marion  Sanderson  was  a  patroness  of  the 
"Patricians,"  and  to  her  efforts  the  innovations 
were,  in  a  great  measure,  due,  They  had 
been  coldly  received  at  first,  and  when  the 
changes  culminated  in  champagne,  some  of 
the  stricter  members  withdrew  their  names 
and  refused  permission  to  their  daughters  to 
attend,  but  the  foundations  of  the  Patricians 
had  been  too  firmly  laid  to  be  shattered  even 
by  such  defection. 

Three  evenings  after  the  events  of  the  last 
chapter  the  inviting  French  ball-room  of  the 
Hotel  Mazarin  was  lighted  for  the  first  "Pa 
tricians'"  dance  of  the  season.  The  florist  had 
arranged  his  last  cluster,  and  the  floor  had 
received  its  last  polishing;  the  dainty  canary 
draperies  were  coquettishly  caught  up  with 
garlands  of  flowers,  while  here  and  there 
slender  palms  cast  their  graceful  shadows  upon 
the  shining  floor,  and  white  and  gold  wood 
work  peeped  from  behind  smilax  and  roses. 
A  row  of  waiting  chairs  around  the  room 
seemed  to  add  to  the  stillness,  which  was 
broken  only  by  the  hollow,  echoing  steps  of 
two  managers  who  were  taking  a  final  glance 
at  the  preparations.  Soon  a  jabbering  of  Ger- 


THE  PATRICIANS.  125 

man,  and  the  squeak  of  violins  behind  the 
gallery  palms,  announced  the  arrival  of  the 
orchestra,  while  down-stairs  by  the  supper 
rooms  the  twang  of  a  Hungarian  cymballo 
proclaimed  the  presence  of  the  Tzigan  band. 
Chattering  Frenchmen  were  scurrying  about 
the  tables  putting  on  the  finishing  touches, 
and  the  usually  suave  and  smirking  maitre 
d' hotel  was  scolding  an  unfortunate  "omnibus" 
hurrying  upstairs  with  the  punch  glasses. 
"De'peche  toi,  Gustave,  ces  gens  vont  venir  a 
r  instant"  he  cried;  but  though  an  hour  had 
passed  since  the  time  for  which  the  guests 
were  invited,  the  ball-room  remained  deserted. 
Down-stairs  a  solitary  woman  sat  quaking 
in  the  ladies'  dressing-room,  and  her  husband 
braved  the  patronizing  glances  of  the  servants 
in  the  hall.  They  were  from  a  Western  town, 
and  both  were  wondering  what  nine  o'clock 
on  the  invitation  meant.  For  nearly  another 
hour  they  sat  there,  and  then  the  rustling  of 
a  satin  dress  announced  the  arrival  of  a  pat 
roness  who  had  promised  to  come  early  to 
receive.  Soon  a  few  men  straggled  in,  another 
patroness  arrived,  and  finally  a  little  knot  of 
women  who  had  collected  in  the  dressing- 


126  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

room  mustered  sufficient  courage  to  enter  the 
great,  empty  ball-room.  The  orchestra  struck 
up  a  Viennese  waltz,  a  couple  started  to  dance, 
and  a  few  others  followed  their  example.  The 
fashionable  hour  had  arrived;  men,  maidens 
and  matrons  crowded  in,  the  room  became 
quickly  rilled  with  a  talking,  laughing  multi 
tude;  brilliant  colors  and  bright  smiles  dis 
pelled  the  gloom,  and  a  giddy  whirling  mass 
of  tulle  and  cheviot  announced  that  the  ball 
had  opened. 

Marion  Sanderson  was  among  the  late  arri 
vals.  She  had  been  unusually  long  at  her 
toilette,  but  the  time  had  been  profitably 
spent,  for  when  she  entered  the  room  her 
perfectly  fitting  gown  of  yellow  satin  and  old 
lace  produced  an  envious  murmur  among  the 
women.  Marion  looked  well  at  any  time,  but 
she  was  especially  attractive  in  evening  dress, 
for  the  lights  and  excitement  seemed  to  pro 
duce  an  extra  glow  of  beauty  which  few  failed 
to  notice.  When  she  came,  it  was  at  the 
close  of  a  dance,  and  a  knot  of  men  quickly 
formed  around  her,  but  Duncan  was  not  of 
the  number.  She  had  expected  to  find  him 
looking  for  her,  and  when  she  saw  him  near 


THE  PATRICIANS.  127 

her,  talking  to  her  enemy,  Mrs.  McSeeney,  she 
felt  an  unpleasant  tinge  of  jealousy.  After  the 
excitement  her  entrance  created  had  subsided, 
he  came  slowly  toward  her. 

"I  believe  I  have  to  thank  you,  Mr.  Gra- 
hame,"  she  said,  giving  him  her  hand,  "for 
these  beautiful  yellow  roses." 

"On  the  contrary,  it  is  I  who  must  thank 
you  for  carrying  them,"  he  replied.  "Besides, 
they  are  typical  of  jealousy." 

"Jealousy,"  repeated  Marion  in  a  wondering 
tone.  "Were  you  ever  jealous?" 

"A  lover  is  always  jealous,"  Duncan  replied. 
Then  he  added  gently:  "I  am  a  lover." 

"Then  all  the  world  must  love  you,"  she 
said  laughingly. 

"I  wish  it  did,  for  you  are  in  the  world," 
he  answered. 

A  glance  of  reproof  was  her  only  reply,  for 
Walter  Sedger  came  to  claim  a  dance,  and 
she  had  just  time  to  promise  the  next  but 
one  to  Duncan  before  she  was  whirled  away 
into  the  gliding  throng.  Duncan's  eyes  fol 
lowed  her  for  a  moment;  she  saw  his  glance 
and  a  slight  tinge  of  color  came  into  her 
cheek.  In  a  moment  she  was  lost  amid  the 


128  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

dancers.  Mechanically  she  danced  a  waltz 
and  a  polka,  scarcely  noticing  her  partner's 
remarks,  for  in  her  heart  she  felt  a  strange 
apprehension  that  she  could  not  understand. 
There  was  a  fascination  in  Duncan's  person 
ality  she  dared  not  attempt  to  explain. 

When  the  first  strains  of  Duncan's  dance 
began,  he  came  to  her  immediately,  and,  with 
out  speaking,  quietly  took  her  hand  and  placed 
his  arm  gently  about  her  waist;  then,  catching 
the  time  of  the  music,  they  glided  away  into 
a  dreamy  waltz.  It  was  their  first  dance  to 
gether,  and  as  he  guided  her  gracefully  and 
easily  through  the  whirling  maze  of  waltzers, 
Marion  felt  that  she  had  never  really  danced 
before.  Silently  they  waltzed  awhile,  enjoy 
ing  the  delicious  excitement  of  the  movement, 
then  he  said  softly:  "I  have  never  understood 
the  power  of  the  dance  before,  but  to-night 
our  steps,  gliding  together  to  this  glorious 
music,  seem  to  me  like  the  love  of  two  natures, 
who  feel  and  act  in  perfect  unison." 

Marion  looked  up  silently  until  her  eyes  met 
his  glance;  she  grew  icy  cold,  but  she  could 
feel  the  quick  throb  of  each  pulse  beat. 
Duncan  pressed  her  gently  nearer,  but  she 


THE  PATRICIANS.  129 

drew  back  and  tossed  her  head  forcibly  away. 
She  laughed  a  hollow  little  laugh  at  the  fear 
in  her  heart,  for  here  at  least  she  was  mistress 
of  herself.  Rhythmically  their  steps  moved 
on  to  the  enchanting  music.  Marion  closed 
her  eyes  and  tried  to  shut  out  the  thoughts  in 
her  heart.  In  the  darkness  she  seemed  to  be 
carried  softly  on  through  space,  like  some 
spirit  borne  away  in  the  arms  of  dreamy  hap 
piness.  Duncan  drew  her  closer  to  his  side; 
she  felt  a  delicious  sense  of  joy,  such  as  she 
had  never  known  before,  and,  almost  dizzy, 
she  glided  on  over  the  shining  floor,  her  heart 
beating  with  wild,  delightful  pleasure.  The 
music  stopped.  For  a  moment  they  danced 
on,  but  the  dream  had  faded;  she  was  back 
in  the  noisy,  humming  world  of  people. 

Marion  had  arrived  so  late  that  people  were 
already  flocking  toward  the  supper  table.  She 
had  long  before  promised  to  take  supper  with 
Walter  Sedger,  who  was  to  lead  the  cotillon; 
but  when  he  appeared,  she  suggested  that  as 
Duncan  was  alone  he  had  better  join  them. 
So  the  three  wandered  down-stairs  and  entered 
the  supper-room.  The  weird  Hungarian  Czar 
das  was  being  played  by  the  Tzigans  in  the 


130  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS, 

hallway,  and  it  seemed  to  Marion  that  it 
did  not  harmonize  with  the  clattering  plates 
and  the  laughter.  She  had  once  heard  that 
fantastic  melody  in  Buda,  and  then  it  cre 
ated  strange  sensations  of  unrest  and  aroused 
the  wildest  feelings  of  her  nature.  In  her 
present  state  of  mind  she  felt  thankful  for  the 
noisy  rattle  of  the  supper-room. 

The  tables  were  placed  in  a  large,  oblong 
room,  and  were  arranged  for  parties  of  four 
or  six,  but  Marion,  being  a  patroness,  was  con 
ducted  to  a  large,  round  table  at  the  farther 
end,  reserved  for  the  managers  and  their 
friends.  She  hoped  that  the  presence  of  other 
people  would  spare  her  the  necessity  of  talk 
ing  much,  but  at  first  she  was  obliged  to 
manufacture  conversation,  in  order  to  keep  her 
two  companions  amused.  Duncan  made  no 
attempt  to  conceal  the  fact  that  the  presence 
of  Sedger  was  distasteful  to  him,  and  he 
amused  himself  by  delivering  occasional  satiri 
cal  remarks  upon  the  latter's  conversation 
which  did  not  tend  to  improve  the  relations 
between  the  two  men.  Accidentally,  however, 
both  Duncan  and  Sedger  were  drawn  into  the 
general  talk  of  the  table,  and  Marion  was  left 


THE   PATRICIANS.  131 

to  herself.  She  felt  lonesome,  in  spite  of  the 
gaiety  around  her,  and  realized  that  there  is 
no  loneliness  so  deep  as  that  which  comes 
amid  merriment  one  cannot  join.  She  looked 
about  at  the  pretty  faces  and  the  brilliant 
colors  made  brighter  by  the  lights;  she  saw 
the  sparkling  eyes  and  glittering  diamonds,  she 
heard  merry  laughter  mingling  with  the  rat 
tling  dishes  and  scurrying  feet,  but  all  seemed 
hollow  and  far  away.  She  knew  that  she  had 
just  been  brought  under  the  influence  of  an 
unknown  power,  and  she  was  faintly  endeavor 
ing  to  collect  her  senses  and  understand  her 
self.  Almost  unwarned  she  had  felt  impetu 
ous  love  flash  forth  in  her  heart,  and  now,  in 
a  dazed  sort  of  way,  she  was  trying  to  bring 
her  mind  to  act.  She  was  impressionable  and 
reckless,  but  not  so  reckless  as  quite  to  forget 
her  position.  One  thought  grew  strongest  in 
her  mind;  it  was  fear.  She  was  brought  back 
to  her  surroundings  by  a  remark  addressed  to 
her  by  Mrs.  McSeeney:  "You  look  quite  pale, 
my  dear,  are  you  ill  ?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  replied  Marion,  smiling 
faintly,  "but  this  room  seems  close.  Don't 
you  think  so?" 


132  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

"I  had  not  noticed  it,"  was  the  answer 
spoken  equivocally. 

The  supper  was  somehow  worried  through. 
As  they  were  leaving  the  table  Walter  Sedger 
said:  "I  have  saved  the  seats  of  head  couple 
for  you,  Mrs.  Sanderson;  if  you  will  come  with 
me,  I  will  show  them  to  you.  I  lead  alone, 
but  I  hope  you  will  permit  me  to  take  you 
out  for  an  occasional  extra  turn." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted,"  Marion  replied. 
Sedger  gave  her  his  arm,  and  Duncan,  glow 
ering  more  than  ever,  was  obliged  to  wander 
on  behind. 

The  musicians'  gallery  did  not  project  into 
the  ball-room,  but  was  supported  by  columns 
in  the  hall  outside.  Just  under  it  an  attractive 
nook  had  been  arranged,  with  palms  and  foli 
age  plants,  a  rug  and  a  divan.  The  lights  were 
kept  low  and  the  palms  were  so  thickly  placed 
as  almost  to  conceal  the  people  who  might 
chance  to  sit  there.  At  each  side  of  this 
recess  was  a  door  leading  into  the  ball-room, 
and  as  Marion  and  her  two  companions  were 
passing  through  the  one  at  the  right,  they 
met  Florence  Moreland  and  Roswell  Sander 
son  coming;  out. 


THE  PATRICIANS.  133 

"I  am  looking  for  my  fan,  Mr.  Grahame," 
said  Florence,  stopping.  "Don't  you  want  to 
help  me  search  for  it  ?" 

"Of  course  I  do,  and  I'll  wager  I  find  it," 
said  Duncan,  walking  directly  toward  the  nook 
just  described. 

"You  need  not  express  your  disapproval  of 
me  so  pointedly,"  called  Florence,  protestingly. 
"I  assure  you  it  is  not  in  here,"  she  con 
tinued,  following  him  until  they  were  both 
concealed  by  the  palms. 

"A  thousand  pardons  for  my  blunder,"  re 
plied  Duncan.  "I  thought  I  saw  you  coming 
out  of  here  after  one  of  the  dances  with  Dr. 
Maccanfrae." 

"I  see  I  must  confess  my  guilt,"  answered 
Florence,  smiling;  "but  I  relied  on  the  protec 
tion  of  his  grey  hairs." 

"I  gather  you  don't  approve  of  this  corner," 
replied  Duncan.  "At  least,"  he  continued, 
looking  around,  "you  were  not  so  indiscreet 
as  to  leave  your  fan  here." 

"I  suppose  the  place  has  its  uses,"  she  an 
swered  laughingly,  "at  least  the  managers  think 
so,  if  one  is  to  judge  by  the  care  bestowed 
on  its  arrangement." 


134  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

"If  I  were  bold, "Duncan  said,  as  they  passed 
out,  "I  would  say  that  it  is  like  a  fire  escape, 
only  to  be  used  on  pressing  occasions." 

Florence  frowned  at  this  atrocious  punning, 
and  he  added,  meekly:  "May  I  have  permis 
sion  to  admire  your  gown?" 

"I  am  surprised  that  you  like  it,"  she  re 
plied.  "This  is  its  second  season." 

"I  think  it  is  charming,"  he  continued.  "But 
might  I  inquire  if  it  is  ardent  affection  for 
each  other  which  prompts  you  and  Mrs.  San 
derson  to  select  the  same  color  to-night?" 

"It  was  not  a  case  of  affection,  but  quite 
an  accident,"  Florence  replied.  "In  fact,  when 
Marion  saw  me  coming  down-stairs  arrayed 
so  like  herself,  she  wanted  to  make  me  change 
my  gown,  but  it  was  so  late  that  I  refused." 

They  reached  the  ball-room  door,  and  there 
they  met  Roswell  Sanderson  with  the  lost 
fan,  which  he  had  found  in  the  supper-room. 
Duncan  left  Florence  with  Marion's  husband 
and  went  in  search  of  his  partner.  He  found 
Marion  already  in  her  place  for  the  cotillon 
and  took  his  seat  beside  her.  A  double  row 
of  chairs  had  been  arranged  around  the  room, 
and  poor  Walter  Sedger  was  flying  about  try- 


THE  PATRICIANS.  .         135 

ing  to  make  people  take  their  places,  so  that 
he  might  commence  his  first  figure.  The  one 
occasion  when  all  intelligence  seems  to  desert 
the  average  mortal, — especially  if  he  be  a 
man, — is  when  he  is  called  upon  to  dance  in 
a  cotillon,  and  already  the  leader's  difficulties 
had  commenced.  When  Sedger  had  succeeded 
in  seating  a  group  in  one  place,  he  would 
turn  around  and  find  that  people  whom  he 
had  fairly  implored  to  take  their  places  were 
wandering  across  the  room,  or  that  Bothers, 
who  were  seated  in  the  back  row,  were  hav 
ing  angry  controversies  with  people  who  had 
placed  their  chairs  in  front  of  them.  All  ex 
pected  Sedger  to  find  them  seats,  and  all  in 
sisted  upon  being  in  the  front  row;  as  there 
were  some  eighty  couples  to  dance,  and  only 
forty  could  sit  in  front,  this,  to  an  intelligent 
mind,  would  seem  an  impossible  proposition; 
but  not  a  single  one  of  those  one  hundred 
and  sixty  people  seemed  to  understand  it. 
Finally  poor  Sedger  conceived  the  brilliant 
idea  of  starting  the  music,  and  the  people 
who  were  squabbling  over  places,  fearing  they 
might  be  left  out  altogether,  scrambled  reck 
lessly  after  seats,  and  thus  the  floor  was 


136  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

cleared.  Sedger  was  now  master  of  the  situ 
ation,  and  soon  he  was  leading  a  troup  of 
sprawling  men  through  a  maze  of  pretty 
gowns,  in  the  performance  of  the  intricate 
evolutions  of  a  cotillon  figure. 

Duncan,  instead  of  favoring  someone,  had 
persuaded  Marion  to  dance  the  figure  through 
with  him.  The  band  played  a  fantastic  polka, 
and,  catching  the  exciting  inspiration  of  the 
Hungarian  strains,  they  glided  fleetly  over  the 
slippery  floor.  It  was  no  longer  the  dreamy 
waltz,  but  the  wild  abandon  of  rapid  motion, 
and  as  they  danced  Marion  seemed  carried 
away  by  the  exhilarating  movement.  On,  on, 
they  danced,  until  the  music  stopped;  then 
Duncan  led  her  quickly  out  of  the  ball-room 
to  the  nook  under  the  musicians'  gallery, 
where,  breathless  from  the  exercise,  she  sank 
down  on  the  divan.  Duncan,  seating  himself 
beside  her,  rested  his  arm  upon  one  of  the 
cushions,  and  leaned  forward  so  that  he  could 
see  her  face.  Her  cheeks  glowed  from  the 
exercise,  and  there,  in  the  soft  light,  her  large 
black  eyes  glistening  with  excitement,  she 
seemed  to  Duncan  the  most  glorious  creature 
he  had  ever  seen.  Delighted  he  gazed  until 


THE  PATRICIANS.  137 

Marion  raised  her  eyes  and  met  his  eager 
glance. 

"Why  did  you  bring  me  here?"  she  asked. 

"To  say  good-by." 

"What  do  you  mean?" she  said,  with  a  fright 
ened  tone  in  her  voice. 

"I  mean  that  I  leave  to-morrow.  I  have 
been  called  back  to  the  East." 

"Are  you  glad?"  she  asked  sadly. 

"Yes,  I  am  glad,"  he  replied  softly;  "glad 
to  have  known  you,  glad  to  feel  that  you 
exist." 

Wild  thoughts  flashed  impetuously  through 
her  mind.  "Why  ?"  she  asked. 

He  leaned  forward  till  his  face  was  near 
hers,  and  she  could  see  his  grey  eyes,  now 
black  in  the  dim  light,  almost  next  her  own. 
He  took  her  hand  and  held  it;  then  he  whis 
pered  passionately:  "Because  I  love  you." 

"For  the  sake  of  both  of  us,  don't  say 
that,"  she  said  hoarsely,  drawing  back  her 
hand. 

"For  the  sake  of  both  of  us  I  will,"  he 
replied.  "  What  is  there  to  prevent  our  lov- 
ing?" 

"  My  husband,"  she  said,  and  the  words 
brought  back  fear  to  her  heart. 


133  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

"I  thought  you  were  a  woman  of  the 
world/'  he  replied  scornfully.  "Do  you  mean 
to  tell  me  that  you  are  afraid?" 

"Yes,"  said  Marion    resolutely. 

"Then  you  must  drown  your  fear  in  love," 
he  answered,  drawing  his  arm  about  her 
shoulders. 

"You  must  leave  me,"  she  pleaded,  trying 
to  release  herself. 

"Not  until  you  say  you  love  me,"  was  his 
answer. 

"That  I  do  not  hate  you  ought  to  tell  you 
that;  O,  I  can't  say  any  more.  Leave  me, 
I  entreat  you." 

"I  will  not  leave  you,  my  Marion,"  he  re 
plied  impetuously.  "I  must  have  your  love." 
And  he  leaned  forward  and  kissed  her.  A 
dress  rustled  behind  the  palms.  Duncan  heard 
it  and  quickly  released  Marion,  who  darted 
away  and  ran  toward  the  ball-room ;  and 
Duncan,  glancing  anxiously  through  the  foli 
age,  saw  a  crimson  gown  hurrying  through 
the  other  door.  "Confound  my  luck !"  he 
muttered.  "I  thought  I  knew  something 
about  this  sort  of  thing,  but  I  was  a  fool  to 
take  such  chances." 


THE  PATRICIANS.  139 

Inside  the  ball-room  Marion  found  her 
husband,  standing  among  a  group  of  men, 
watching  the  dancing.  "I  am  going  home, 
Roswell,"  she  said,  taking  his  arm  and  draw 
ing  him  away.  "Find  Florence,  won't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  dear,"  he  replied.  "Are  you  ill?"  he 
added,  thinking  it  unusual  for  his  wife  to 
leave  so  early. 

"I  feel  tired,  that  is  all.  Tell  Florence 
she  can  go  home  with  Mrs.  Smythe  if  she 
chooses." 

Roswell  Sanderson  went  in  search  of  Flor 
ence  and  soon  returned  with  her.  He  had 
given  her  Marion's  message,  but  Florence  did 
not  care  to  remain,  so  she  excused  herself  to 
her  partner  in  the  cotillon  and  hurried  away 
with  Roswell.  "What  is  the  matter?"  she 
anxiously  asked  Marion. 

"I  feel  a  little  faint  and  I  think  I  will  go 
home,"  was  the  answer.  Florence  thought 
Marion  seemed  agitated  rather  than  faint. 
She  wondered  what  had  happened,  but  think 
ing  it  unwise  to  pursue  the  matter  further, 
she  walked  on  quietly  beside  Marion  and 
her  husband.  On  the  stairs  they  met  Dun 
can  ;  Marion  tried  to  avoid  him,  but  he  came 


140  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

toward  her  and  said  calmly:  "I  have  been 
looking  everywhere  for  you,  Mrs.  Sanderson. 
Have  you  forgotten  you  have  a  partner  in 
the  cotillon  ?" 

"No;"  Marion  replied.  "But  you  must  ex 
cuse  me  as  I  feel  quite  tired ;  I  am  going 
home." 

"I  feel  cheated,"  answered  Duncan ;  "the 
more  so  as  I  leave  to-morrow  and  must  say 
good-by,  now."  He  put  out  his  hand  and 
Marion  took  it.  She  tried  not  to  look  at 
him,  but  an  indefinable  attraction  compelled 
her  to  raise  her  eyes.  "Good-by,"  he  said, 
softly  pressing  her  hand. 

"Good-by,"  she  answered.  Then  she  quick 
ly  drew  back  her  hand  and  turned  away.  As 
she  descended  the  stairs  she  felt  that  he  was 
still  looking  at  her.  She  wanted  to  look 
back,  but  she  closed  her  eyes  and  pressed 
closely  to  her  husband's  arm  till  they  reached 
the  cloak-room  door.  While  she  and  Flor 
ence  were  putting  on  their  wraps,  she  could 
hear  the  distant  strains  of  music  coming  from 
the  ball-room ;  they  seemed  to  her  like  the 
last  echo  of  the  love  which  had  flamed  so 
brilliantly  for  a  moment  in  her  heart,  and 


THE   PATRICIANS.  141 

now  must  die  and  become  a  memory.  The 
music  stopped.  "It  is  all  over,"  she  thought; 
then  she  hurried  away  with  Florence  and  her 
husband  down  the  great  stairway  to  the  street 
door.  "Mrs.  Sanderson's  carriage,"  called  a 
servant  on  the  stairs.  "Mrs.  Sanderson's  car 
riage,"  was  echoed  from  the  street.  She 
heard  a  rumbling  noise  of  wheels;  then  the 
street  door  opened,  and  she  felt  a  blast  of  cold, 
refreshing  air.  "The  carriage  is  here,  ma'am," 
called  her  footman,  and  they  passed  out  into 
the  darkness.  At  the  end  of  the  awning- 
covered  passage  the  carriage  lamps  burned 
dimly,  and  she  could  hear  the  restless  champ 
ing  of  bits.  They  reached  the  carriage  and 
took  their  places ;  the  door  was  closed  ;  the 
servant  mounted  the  box,  the  carriage  rolled 
away  crunching  the  crisp  snow  under  its 
wheels.  Marion  sank  into  a  corner  and  tried 
to  think.  "I  did  my  best,"  she  said  to  her 
self  again  and  again.  "I  did  my  best,  but 
it  was  so  hard."  Over  the  snow-muffled 
stones  the  carriage  rolled  past  massive  struct 
ures,  black  and  silent  in  the  darkness.  Huge, 
scowling  ogres,  they  seemed  to  Marion,  coldly 
frowning  their  displeasure.  On  through  the 


142  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

darkened  streets  they  went  and  over  the  river 
bridge;  she  could  see  the  flickering  street 
lamps  faintly  glistening  on  the  ice,  and  she 
thought  they  were  feeble  hope  rays  shining 
through  the  darkness.  Marion  closed  her 
eyes  and  listened  to  the  wheels  creaking 
through  the  snow.  How  long  it  was  she  did 
not  know,  but  after  a  time  she  felt  a  sense  of 
stillness.  She  opened  her  eyes.  They  were 
home. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

GATHERING    CLOUDS. 

"Are  you  going  to  the  'Renaissance  Club* 
tea,  Marion,  dear?"  said  Florence  Moreland, 
coming  into  the  library  on  the  afternoon  fol 
lowing  the  "Patricians'  "  ball.  Marion  was  sit 
ting  on  the  low  front  window  seat,  and  she 
held  a  sash  curtain  crumpled  in  her  hand. 
Her  eyes  were  slowly  following  the  numerous 
sleighs  gliding  up  and  down  the  Lake  Shore 
Drive.  The  sun  shone  brightly  on  the  glis 
tening  snow,  the  bells  jingled  merrily,  and 
the  waving  plumes  of  graceful  sleighs  com 
bined,  with  the  rosy  faces  of  their  fur-clad 
occupants,  to  form  a  cheery  winter  picture. 
But  with  all  this  brightness  before  her  Marion 
looked  thoughtful  and  disturbed.  Perhaps  the 
restless  lake  beyond,  dashing  its  troubled  waves 
against  the  grey  sea  wall,  better  expressed  the 
thoughts  which  caused  the  discontented  wan 
dering  of  her  eyes.  She  did  not  reply  to 
Florence's  question  but  continued  looking  out 

143 


144  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

over  the  road-way,  as  though  unaware  of  her 
friend's  presence. 

"Marion,  dear,"  called  Florence  in  a  louder 
tone;  "didn't  you  hear  me  ?" 

Mrs.  Sanderson  slowly  dropped  the  sash 
curtain  and  looked  up.  "O,  are  you  there?" 
she  said  vaguely. 

"Yes,  and  I  have  been  here  an  age  trying 
to  make  you  hear  me,"  Florence  replied. 
" What  are  you  dreaming  about  ?" 

"O,  nothing  much,"  Marion  sighed;  but  her 
voice  told  her  friend  that  this  was  not  quite 
true. 

"You  are  in  one  of  your  moods  again,"  said 
Florence.  "You  need  me  to  cheer  you  up; 
but  first  of  all  tell  me  if  you  aie  going  to 
the  tea  this  afternoon?" 

"O,  I  fancy  so,"  Marion  replied  somewhat 
mournfully.  "  I  wish  the  *  Renaissance  Club' 
were  in  Kamtschatka,  or  some  other  such 
place,  but  Roswell  actually  promised  to  come 
home  in  time  to  take  us,  so  I  suppose  we  shall 
have  to  go.  It  is  not  time  yet,  though." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Florence,  "but  I  think  I 
had  better  change  my  gown  now." 

"You  look  well  enough  as  you  are,"  Marion 


GATHERING  CLOUDS.  145 

replied,  casting  her  eyes  critically  over  her 
friend's  attire.  'Tut  on  your  gold-braided 
jacket  and  you  will  look  as  smart  as  any  girl 
there." 

"Very  well,  then  I  shall  go  as  I  am.  I 
would  much  rather  talk  than  bother  about 
dressing."  Saying  this  Florence  approached 
Marion  and  sat  down  beside  her  on  the  win 
dow  seat.  Marion  did  not  notice  her,  but 
continued  to  look  thoughtfully  out  of  the 
window.  Florence  watched  her  for  a  moment, 
as  though  trying  to  read  the  thoughts  behind 
her  restless  eyes;  then  she  gently  took  both 
her  friend's  hands,  and  holding  them  in  her 
own  said  inquiringly:  "What  is  troubling 
you,  dear." 

"Nothing,"  Marion  sighed. 

"Then  why  do  you  seem  so  far  away?" 

"Because  I  was  thinking." 

"Of  what?"  asked  Florence. 

"Of  how  like  a  human  life  the  waters  of 
that  lake  are." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  her  friend. 

"Why,  like  a  life  they  roll  waywardly  on 
until  they  pass  to  mother  earth  again,  or  are 
borne  upward  to  the  clouds.  Sometimes  they 
10 


146  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

lie  peacefully  at  rest,  or  they  ripple  merrily 
like  children  at  play,  only  to  be  rudely  awak 
ened  and  lashed  to  angry  fury  in  an  aimless 
struggle  with  the  winds.  Like  a  life  they  are 
merely  the  agents  of  some  greater  power, 
helplessly  following  their  destiny." 

"I  think  you  theorize  too  much,  my  dear," 
said  Florence.  "If  you  want  happiness,  you 
must  take  life  as  it  comes." 

"Happiness,"  laughed  Marion  cynically. 
"Happiness  is  like  the  golden  bowl  at  the 
rainbow's  base ;  no  matter  how  desperately 
you  chase  after  it,  it  still  glitters  in  the  dis 
tant  future." 

"Possibly,"  replied  Florence,  "though  I  re 
member  reading  somewhere  that  'the  reason 
there  is  so  little  happiness  in  the  world  is  be 
cause  so  few  people  are  engaged  in  producing 
it.'  Perhaps  that  is  why  we  are  unhappy." 

"Do  you  know  the  formula  for  the  pro 
duction  of  this  rarity?"  sneered  Marion. 

"No,  but  I  suppose  it  has  something  to  do 
with  the  time  honored  saying,  'be  virtuous,' 
and  so  forth." 

"Yes,  I  know;  the  kind  of  happiness  that 
comes  from  the  knowledge  that  one  is  good," 


GATHERING  CLOUDS.  147 

put  in  Marion.  "It  is  a  sort  of  self-satisfied, 
touch-me-not  happiness,  with  a  better-than- 
you-are  smirk  about  it." 

"Can't  one  have  a  clear  conscience  without 
being  a  Pharisee?"  asked  Florence. 

"I  don't  know,"  sighed  Marion.  "It  is  all 
a  question  of  temptation,  I  suppose.  Some 
people  seem  to  be  good  from  birth  ;  they 
are  never  tempted,  and  have  no  charity  for 
those  who  are." 

"I  don't  call  such  people  good,"  replied 
Florence ;  "a  St.  Anthony  without  a  temp 
tation  would  be  a  sorry  picture  of  virtuous 
self-control." 

Marion  did  not  reply.  For  a  moment  she 
remained  quietly  thinking,  as  though  Flor 
ence's  words  had  inspired  her  with  an  idea ; 
finally  she  spoke,  in  slowly  chosen  words : 
"Do  you  think  what  the  Bible  says  about  a 
mental  sin  being  as  great  as  the  outward  act 
can  be  true?" 

"I  think  it  depends  entirely  upon  circum 
stances,"  replied  Florence. 

Marion  turned  her  eyes  thoughtfully  upon 
the  floor,  then,  restlessly  twisting  a  cushion 
tassel  between  her  fingers,  she  asked  earnestly : 


148  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

"Do  you  think  a  woman  who  is  tempted  and 
resists,  yet  feels  the  subtle  poison  still  in  her 
heart,  has  sinned  ?" 

Florence  was  silent  a  moment,  as  though 
weighing  the  question  in  her  mind.  "I  would 
not  condemn  such  a  woman,"  she  finally  said; 
"I  would  pity  her." 

"What   ought  she  to  do?"  asked  Marion. 

"She  has  kept  her  self-respect,  and  I  think 
on  that  foundation  she  should  build  the  nega 
tive  happiness  called  peace  of  mind." 

"What  if  the  sting  is  too  fresh,  the  poison 
too  strong?  What  if  the  cup  is  still  before 
her?" 

"Then  she  should  dash  it  resolutely  from 
her,  and  trust  that  time  will  heal  the  wound." 

Marion  smiled  faintly.  She  was  thinking 
of  an  express  train  rushing  toward  the  East 
and  bearing  danger  farther  and  farther  away. 
"Perhaps  destiny  is  kind  sometimes,"  she 
thought.  "Were  you  ever  unhappy,  Flor 
ence  ?"  she  asked  after  a  moment. 

"Why,  what  an  absurd  question,"  her  friend 
replied.  "Is  there  any  one  who  has  not  been 
unhappy  at  some  time?" 

"O,  of  course   people    have  unpleasant  mo- 


GATHERING  CLOUDS.  149 

ments  which  they  get  over,"  Marion  answered ; 
"but  what  I  call  unhappiness  is  to  feel  that 
one  has  made  an  irreparable  mistake  in  life, 
and  then  to  be  suddenly  shown  the  unattain 
able  possibility." 

"I  should  think  such  a  person  would  feel 
something  like  a  hungry  pauper,  gazing  into 
a  pastry  cook's  window.  The  glimpse  of  pos 
sibility  must  intensify  his  craving." 

"You  are  utterly  practical  and  entirely  un 
sympathetic,"  said  Marion,  somewhat  ruffled 
at  Florence's  levity.  "Sometimes  I  think  you 
are  a  most  unsatisfactory  person." 

"I  will  not  be  dismissed  as  a  person," 
laughed  Florence.  "You  may  call  me  any 
thing  you  like,  but  don't  subject  me  to  the 
degradation  of  being  styled  a  person." 

"I  think  you  deserve  it  for  turning  my  seri 
ousness  so  inconsiderately  into  ridicule,  '  said 
Marion  with  an  injured  air. 

"It  is  just  the  best  thing  for  you,"  Florence 
replied.  "You  worry  unnecessarily." 

"You  always  say  that,"  sighed  Marion,  "but 
you  don't  understand." 

"Yes,  I  do.  No  one  understands  you  as 
well  as  I  do." 


150  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

"Then  why  don't  you  sympathize  with  me 
more?" 

"You  don't  need  sympathy;  that  only  pan 
ders  to  your  discontent.  What  you  need  is 
to  be  shaken  up  and  made  to  forget  your 
self." 

"You're  a  cruel  girl.'* 

"I  know  it,  and  I  am  going  home  to-mor 
row." 

"Are  you  daft,  Florence?"  said  Marion, 
amazed  at  her  friend's  abruptness. 

"No,  I  mean  it,"  replied  Florence.  "But  it 
is  not  because  you  have  treated  me  badly, 
my  dear.  I  did  not  mean  to  tell  you  so  sud 
denly,  but  something  happened  a  short  time 
ago  which  makes  me  feel  I  had  better  leave. 
Please  don't  ask  me  about  it,  dear,"  she  con 
tinued,  seeing  the  questioning  expression  in 
Marion's  eyes.  "I  only  feel  that  it  will  be 
wiser  for  me  to  go  away." 

"Why,  Florence,"  said  Marion  sympathet 
ically,  "can't  you  trust  me?" 

"It  is  not  because  I  can't  trust  you,  my 
dear,"  she  replied.  "You  understand  me,  don't 
you  ?  I  think  it  would  be  kinder  for  me  not 
to  remain,  and  then,"  she  added  hesitatingly, 


GATHERING  CLOUDS,  151 

"I  want  to  be  away  where  I  can  better  think 
it  over." 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  Marion  answered.  "You 
are  such  a  queer  girl,  though;  how  could  you 
keep  so  quiet  about  it?" 

"I  didn't  feel  that  I  could  talk  about  it. 
I  am  queer,  I  suppose,,  but  you  will  forgive 
me  if  I  go  away,  won't  you?  I  have  thought 
it  over  for  three  days  and  I  feel  it  is  best." 

"I  will  forgive  you,  of  course,  my  dear;  but, 
O,  Florence,  do  be  sure  you  are  doing  right. 
Don't  make  a  mistake." 

"That  is  why  I  am  going  away.  I  will 
know  better  then." 

At  this  moment  a  man  quietly  entered  the 
room.  He  had  delicately  cut  features  and  a 
determined  mouth,  softened  by  gentle,  brown 
eyes.  His  dark  hair  was  slightly  tinged  with 
grey  upon  the  temples,  and  his  colorless  com 
plexion  indicated  a  man  whose  life  was  little 
spent  in  the  open  air,  a  fact  somewhat  em 
phasized  by  his  slightly  stooping  shoulders 
and  thin,  nervous  hands.  His  clothes  were 
plain  and  neat,  but  without  any  of  the  pro 
nounced  effects  of  fashion,  and  his  entire 
appearance  was  decidedly  that  of  one  who 
is  termed  in  America  "a  business  man." 


152  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

"Why  don't  you  speak  when  you  enter  a 
room,  Roswell?  said  Mrs.  Sanderson,  looking 
up  suddenly,  startled  at  seeing  her  husband. 
"Did  you  hear  what  we  were  talking  about?" 

"I  am  not  an  eavesdropper,  my  dear,"  he 
said  quietly.  "I  merely  came  to  tell  you  that 
I  am  back  from  the  bank.  Are  you  ready 
to  go  to  the  tea?" 

"I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late,"  said  Marion 
looking  at  her  watch.  "We  must  hurry,  Flor 
ence."  The  two  women  went  to  put  on  their 
hats,  and  when  they  returned  all  three  en 
tered  the  carriage  waiting  at  the  door  and 
were  driven  quickly  toward  the  rooms  of  the 
"Renaissance  Club"  in  lower  Wabash  Avenue. 

The  institution  which  bore  the  name  of 
"Renaissance  Club"  was  a  ladies'  literary  soci 
ety  devoted  to  studying  the  effect  of  human 
ism  upon  the  literature  of  the  world.  It  held 
meetings  in  its  tastefully  arranged  rooms  on 
each  alternate  Thursday  afternoon  throughout 
the  season,  and  on  these  occasions  original  pa 
pers  were  read  and  discussed  with  an  amount 
of  erudition  which  astonished  the  members 
unacquainted  with  the  usual  works  of  refer 
ence,  and  rendered  the  club  the  admiration 


GATHERING  CLOUDS.  153 

and  pride  of  feminine  Chicago.  It  is  true 
that  literary  ability  was  by  no  means  the  first 
requisite  for  admission,  and  that  the  member 
ship  list  might  be  used  with  impunity  for 
directing  invitations  to  the  smartest  dances; 
but  despite  these  facts,  there  was  a  decidedly 
literary  flavor  about  the  meetings  of  the  club, 
enhanced  perhaps  by  the  presence  of  two  or 
three  ladies  who  had  actually  experienced  the 
delight  of  seeing  their  writings  in  print.  Of 
course  the  talking  was  confined  to  a  confident 
set,  who  enjoyed  the  excitement  of  a  literary 
discussion;  for  as  no  one  else  desired  to  un 
dergo  the  tortures  of  speaking  in  public,  the 
vast  majority  assumed  a  dignified  expression 
of  wisdom,  and  remained  discreetly  silent. 
The  club  had  discussed  Dante  and  Petrarch, 
Villani  and  Ariosto,  even  Lorenzo  de  Medici; 
it  had  laughed  over  Cervantes  and  blushed 
profusely  over  Boccaccio  and  Rabelais,  but  the 
meeting  to  which  the  Sandersons  and  Florence 
Moreland  had  gone  was  called  for  no  such 
intellectual  purpose.  Once  during  the  season 
the  club  gave  a  tea  to  which  men  were  invited, 
and  on  such  occasions  the  entertainment  was 
confined  to  the  efforts  of  elocutionists  and 


154  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

balladists.  Whether  the  club  dared  not  ex 
pose  its  intellectual  attainments  to  public 
criticism,  or  did  not  care  to  have  its  literary 
efforts  judged  by  the  standard  of  the  Board 
of  Trade,  was  never  sufficiently  clear;  but  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  no  literature  was  ever 
discussed  at  the  annual  tea,  this  meeting  was 
invariably  the  most  fully  attended  of  any  dur 
ing  the  season. 

When  the  Sanderson  party  entered  there 
was  such  a  hum  of  subdued  voices,  that  the 
efforts  of  a  young  woman  engaged  in  singing 
were  scarcely  audible  above  the  animated 
whisperings  of  the  people  who  thronged  the 
club-rooms.  Numerous  small  tea  tables  sup 
plied  with  all  manner  of  dainty  tea  things 
were  scattered  about.  Each  of  these  was 
presided  over  by  a  pretty  girl,  and  each  was 
surrounded  by  a  knot  of  black-coated  youths. 
Although  young  men  were  there  in  abun 
dance,  those  of  mature  years  were  conspicu 
ously  absent ;  but  it  is  one  of  the  peculiari 
ties  of  a  busy  city  like  Chicago,  that  while 
young  employes  are  able  to  appear  at  after 
noon  gatherings,  the  heads  of  firms  are  in 
variably  detained  at  their  offices. 


GATHERING  CLOUDS.  155 

The  balladist's  song  was  followed  by  an 
uninterrupted  flow  of  feminine  voices,  punct 
uated  with  occasional  masculine  laughs,  com 
ing  like  intermittent  grumblings  of  thunder 
during  a  pattering  storm  of  rain.  The  Ameri 
can  girl  who  does  not  talk  is  a  rarity,  indeed, 
but,  though  climatic  influences  have  parched 
her  vocal  cords,  her  harsh,  hearty  voice  say 
ing  something  is  a  pleasurable  contrast  to 
the  subdued  vacuity  of  the  average  English 
maiden  of  twenty.  The  animated  clatter  of 
an  occidental  gathering  may  seem  discordant 
when  compared  with  the  solemnity  of  a  Lon 
don  drawing-room;  but  in  this  artificial  age 
it  should  prove  refreshing  to  one  who  ad 
mits  a  fondness  for  open-hearted  naturalness. 
There  was  an  intimacy  among  the  people 
gathered  in  the  "Renaissance  Club"  rooms 
which  is  rarely  met  with  in  the  larger  cities. 
They  were  nearly  all  acquainted  with  one 
another,  and  most  of  them  were  people  who 
met  with  such  frequency  that  many  restric 
tions  of  formality  had  passed  away.  A  person 
whose  life  is  continuously  passed  amid  such 
surroundings  may  develop  an  inclination  to 
magnify  his  own  entourage  to  the  disparage- 


156  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

ment  of  the  great  world  he  knows  so  little 
of;  but  he  will  be  spared  a  realization  of  the 
atomic  nature  of  a  person's  position  in  that 
world,  and  he  will  never  know  the  fitful 
interest  cosmopolitan  society  takes  in  any 
individual. 

Marion  Sanderson  looked  upon  this  society 
as  provincial,  and  she  felt  inexpressibly  bored 
at  the  thought  that  she  must  meet  absolutely 
the  same  people  night  after  night,  and  know 
by  premonition  what  each  of  them  would 
have  to  say  on  any  given  subject.  Her  senses 
had  once  been  dazzled  by  the  varied  glitter  of 
the  metropolitan  kaleidoscope.  Had  she  been 
given  time  to  investigate  the  tawdry  shams, 
of  which  it  is  so  largely  composed,  she  might 
have  appreciated  better  the  less  brilliant 
world  about  her ;  but  with  her  superficial  ex 
perience  inciting  discontent,  Marion  wandered 
about,  that  afternoon,  pitying  the  restricted 
resources  of  the  people  she  met,  and  congratu 
lating  herself  and  her  intimates  upon  the  aid 
they  had  already  rendered  toward  the  devel 
opment  of  Chicago  society. 

Florence  Moreland,  however,  appreciated 
this  society,  which,  surrounded  by  all  the  ap- 


GATHERING  CLOUDS.  157 

purtenances  of  civilization,  was  still  so  natural 
and  sincere.  She  regretted  that  she  had  de 
cided  to  leave,  and  she  entered  so  heartily 
into  the  spirit  of  Western  life,  that  she  was 
more  than  once  tempted  to  alter  her  decision ; 
but,  remembering  that  her  presence  seemed 
to  torture  Harold,  she  realized  that  her  own 
peace  of  mind  would  be  more  easily  attained 
in  her  New  Hampshire  home.  She  wandered 
about  the  room,  taking  leave  of  her  many 
friends,  who  were,  of  course,  greatly  surprised 
at  the  suddenness  of  her  departure,  until  she 
was  accosted  by  Mrs.  McSeeney.  Her  eyes 
beamed  so  triumphantly  that  Florence  felt 
an  instinctive  dread  of  an  encounter  with  a 
woman  whom  she  knew  to  be  Marion's  en 
emy.  Mrs.  McSeeney  spoke  with  a  suavity 
which  Florence  felt  to  be  entirely  feigned, 
and  she  was  at  a  loss  to  account  for  this  sud 
den  pleasantness  of  manner. 

"I  have  just  heard,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
McSeeney,  "that  you  are  going  away,  and  I 
can't  tell  you  how  deeply  we  shall  all  miss 
you.  What  induced  you  to  leave  so  sud 
denly?" 

"I  am  called  home  because  my  father  says 


158  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

he  must  have  me  there,"  Florence  replied, 
thinking  it  the  easiest  excuse  to  make.  "I 
am  the  only  child,  and  he  gets  extremely 
lonesome  when  I  am  long  away." 

"You  forget  that  while  he  is  but  one  person, 
there  are  many  others  here.  You  are  incon 
siderate  of  the  claims  of  the  majority,"  said 
Mrs.  McSeeney.  "However,  you  may  carry 
away  the  satisfaction  that  you  looked  abso 
lutely  heavenly  at  the  ball  last  night  in  that 
charming  yellow  gown.  How  like  it  is  to 
Marion's,  was  that  intentional?" 

"That  is  the  second  time  I  have  been  asked 
that  question,  but  I  assure  you  it  was  quite 
an  unexpected  coincidence." 

"A  coincidence  which  created  a  fortunate 
contrast,"  replied  Mrs.  McSeeney,  with  in 
creased  suavity.  "Fortunate  for  you,  at  least." 

"What  does  this  extreme  agreeableness 
mean?"  Florence  wondered,  and  for  a  moment 
she  was  lost  for  a  reply.  "By  the  way," 
continued  Mrs.  McSeeney,  "what  has  become 
of  that  charming  Mr.  Grahame  whom  Marion 
brought  to  my  house  last  week?  I  don't  see 
him  here." 

"He     went    back    to    New    York    to-day," 


GATHERING  CLOUDS.  159 

answered  Florence  somewhat  coolly,  as  she 
wished  to  end  the  conversation. 

"What  a  pity !"  said  Mrs.  McSeeney,  speak 
ing  in  a  louder  tone.  "Mr.  Grahame  was  such 
a  delightful  man,  and  dear  Marion  Sanderson 
must  miss  him  so." 

Instinctively  feeling  that  some  one  else 
might  have  overheard  this  remark,  Florence 
looked  hurriedly  behind  her,  and  was  horrified 
to  see  Roswell  Sanderson  and  Harold  Wain- 
wright  standing  there.  She  saw  the  meaning 
of  Mrs.  McSeeney's  action  now;  she  had  laid 
this  trap  to  injure  Marion  in  the  eyes  of  her 
husband,  and  Roswell's  expression  of  mingled 
anger  and  anxiety  told  her  plainly  that  he  had 
overheard.  Frightened  for  Marion's  happiness 
she  turned  to  Mrs.  McSeeney  and  said  angrily: 
"You  have  no  right  to  connect  Marion's  name 
with  Mr.  Grahame's  in  such  a  manner." 

"Indeed !"  Mrs.  McSeeney  replied  with  ex 
asperating  coolness.  "I  think  that  when  a 
woman  of  Marion  Sanderson's  prominence  is 
indiscreet  in  her  actions,  she  must  expect  to 
cause  comment.  I  happened  to  see  Mr.  Gra 
hame  kiss  Mrs.  Sanderson,  under  the  musi 
cians'  gallery,  at  the  ball  last  night.  I  think 


160  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

I  am  justified  in  any  conclusions  I  may  draw.*' 
Florence  heard  a  low  exclamation  behind 
her.  For  a  moment  countless  thoughts 
rushed  through  her  brain  in  jumbled  con 
fusion,  then  she  seemed  to  understand  it  all. 
Mrs.  McSeeney  told  the  truth.  No  woman 
would  dare  make  such  an  accusation  falsely, 
and  this  explained  Marion's  strange  talk  of 
the  afternoon.  Poor  Marion  !  was  there  no  way 
to  save  her?  With  the  suddenness  of  inspi 
ration  an  idea  came  to  her.  She  remembered 
seeing  a  play  in  which  two  women  were  mis 
taken  for  each  other  by  the  similarity  of  their 
gowns;  she  had  also  been  with  Duncan  under 
the  musicians'  gallery,  and  she  knew  it  was 
too  dark  to  distinguish  faces  accurately  there. 
She  turned  quickly  toward  Roswell  Sanderson, 
and  seizing  his  hand  drew  him  forward.  He 
was  about  to  speak  but  she  stopped  him; 
then,  facing  Mrs.  McSeeney,  she  said  defiantly: 
"You  have  conceived  a  clever  plan  to  ruin 
Mr.  Sanderson's  wife.  Your  motive,  I  think, 
is  evident  to  all  who  know  you,  but,  fortu 
nately,  your  statement  is  untrue.  'Twas  I 
who  was  with  Mr.  Grahame  under  the  musi 
cians'  gallery." 


GATHERING  CLOUDS.  161 

Mrs.  McSeeney  drew  back  astonished  at 
this  sudden  statement,  but  she  quickly  recov 
ered  from  her  surprise  and  said  ironically: 
"Such  a  melodramatic  sacrifice  seems  out  of 
place  in  real  life,  but  I  suppose  you  are  one 
of  those  heroic  maidens  who  enjoy  tarnishing 
their  own  reputation  to  clear  a  friend.  I  ad 
mit  that  the  darkness  and  the  similarity  of 
your  gowns  may  have  rendered  the  confusion 
possible,  but  I  assure  you  I  was  not  mistaken 
about  the  facts.  I  suppose  you  are  prepared 
to  admit  them  also?" 

"I  am,"  said  Florence  deliberately. 

"Well,  you  are  ingenuous,  I  must  say,"  said 
Mrs.  McSeeney,  astonished  at  Florence's  de 
termined  manner.  "Perhaps  you  will  think 
better  of  your  foolishness  when  you  realize 
the  position  in  which  you  have  placed  your 
self  before  society.  In  the  meantime  I  trust 
Mr.  Sanderson  accepts  a  statement  which,  con 
sidering  my  experience  of  the  world,  I  believe 
extremely  improbable." 

Roswell  clenched  his  fists  to  suppress  his 
anger.  "Mr.  Sanderson,"  he  said  slowly,  "be 
lieves  absolutely  in  the  fidelity  of  his  wife, 
and  he  warns  Mrs.  McSeeney  that  she  must 
11 


162  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

answer  to  him  for  any  future  slurs  upon  her 
character." 

Mrs.  McSeeney's  eyes .  flashed  as  she  said 
coolly:  "I  am  glad  Mrs.  Sanderson  enjoys  so 
absolutely  the  confidence  of  her  husband." 
Then,  shrugging  her  shoulders  slightly,  she 
turned  and  walked  toward  the  door.  It  was 
growing  so  late  that  the  distant  room  in  which 
this  scene  occurred  was  quite  empty,  and  for 
tunately  no  one  but  Harold  Wainwright  had 
overheard  the  conversation.  An  anxious  wit 
ness  of  the  scene,  he  had  appeared  at  first 
dumfounded  by  Florence's  self-accusation;  but 
he  now  calmly  followed  Mrs.  McSeeney  to 
ward  the  door.  He  quickly  caught  up  with 
her,  and  speaking  so  quietly  that  she  turned 
about  somewhat  frightened,  he  said:  "May 
I  speak  with  you  a  moment?  I  have  some 
thing  of  importance  to  say." 

"Certainly,"  she  replied,  and  they  passed  on 
into  the  next  room. 

Florence  was  left  alone  with  Roswell  San 
derson.  The  first  excitement  of  the  resolution 
to  save  Marion  had  passed,  and  she  now  re 
alized  the  position  in  which  she  had  so  sud 
denly  placed  herself,  and  her  foremost  desire 


GATHERING  CLOUDS.  163 

now  was  to  get  away  somewhere.  Above  all 
she  dared  not  speak  to  Roswell.  She  was 
still  holding  his  hand  which  she  had  grasped 
so  earnestly  in  the  midst  of  her  excitement, 
and  now  she  tried  to  release  it.  This  action 
Roswell  resisted,  and,  turning  until  he  could 
see  into  her  face,  he  said  earnestly:  "You  are 
a  brave  girl,  Florence,  and  I  thank  you  for 
it  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart." 

Florence  lowered  her  eyes.  "Don't  talk 
about  it,"  she  said  anxiously,  "and  please 
promise  not  to  say  one  word  to  Marion  of 
all  this.  I  am  going  away,  and,  if  you  can 
keep  her  from  knowing  about  it,  it  will  make 
me  so  happy." 

Roswell  was  silent  a  moment.  A  curious 
expression  of  sad  determination,  which  Flor 
ence  did  not  understand,  came  into  his  eyes. 

"I  promise,"  he  finally  said,  "but  you  must 
answer  me  one  question  now  thai  we  are  alone. 
Did  you  speak  the  truth?" 

Florence  trembled  slightly.  She  had  been 
expecting  this  question  and  felt  that  every 
thing  depended  on  her  answer.  She  pressed 
his  hand  firmly,  and,  looking  up  into  his  face, 
said  in  tones  which  bore  the  resolute  accent 


164  WITH  EDGE  TOOLS. 

of  truth:  "Roswell,  I  assure  you  that   Marion 
has  been  true  to  you." 

"I  will  ask  no  more,"  he  replied,  and  she 
saw  that  determined  expression  come  back 
again  to  his  eyes.  They  heard  the  sound  of 
approaching  steps,  and  he  quickly  released 
her  hand.  Turning  round  they  saw  Marion 
approaching.  "What  under  heaven  are  you 
doing  here  ?"  Marion  said,  as  she  entered  the 
room.  "Don't  you  know  everyone  has  gone 
home,  and  we  shall  be  late  for  dinner?" 


CHAPTER  IX. 

OAKHURST. 

On  a  Saturday  morning  in  early  June,  about 
five  months  after  Duncan's  visit  to  Chicago, 
Rennsler  Van  Vort,  attired  in  tweeds  and 
carrying  a  bag  in  one  hand  and  a  bundle  of 
coats  and  sticks  in  the  other,  pushed  rapidly 
past  the  ticket  collector  of  a  Jersey  City 
ferry.  He  was  on  his  way  to  spend  Sunday 
with  the  Osgoods  at  their  place  near  Mor- 
ristown,  and  his  haste  was  inspired  by  the 
knowledge  that  if  he  missed  the  next  boat 
he  would  be  left  to  wander  about  the  most 
unattractive  portion  of  New  York  for  at  least 
another  half-hour.  He  managed,  however,  to 
reach  the  ferry-boat  just  before  she  started, 
and  was  congratulating  himself  on  his  good 
fortune,  when  he  observed  a  man  with  a  bag 
in  each  hand,  running  in  hot  haste  down  the 
incline  leading  to  the  boat.  The  iron  gates 
were  closed;  the  windlasses  were  clicking  rap 
idly  as  the  mooring  hawsers  were  being  wound 

165 


166  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

around,  and  the  great  paddle  wheels  had  be 
gun  to  stir  the  waters  of  the  slip  to  seeth 
ing  foam.  The  man  at  the  windlass  tried  to 
restrain  the  tardy  passenger's  efforts  to  reach 
the  boat,  but  he  brushed  past  him  and  leapt 
onto  her  deck,  just  as  she  had  begun  to  move 
out  from  the  slip. 

"Great  Scot!  Duncan,  did  you  drop  from 
the  clouds  ?"  said  Van  Vort,  as  the  breathless 
runner,  aided  by  a  deck  hand,  clambered  over 
the  iron  gate. 

"No,  I  beat  the  gate-keeper,"  replied  Dun 
can,  as  he  came  to  a  stop  beside  Rennsler 
and  deposited  his  bags  on  the  deck.  "He 
was  just  shutting  the  stile,  and  called  to  me 
to  stop,  but  I  didn't  care  to  bask  on  the 
docks  for  an  hour,  so  I  gave  him  the  slip  and 
here  I  am." 

"That  explains  your  flying  leap  on  the  boat, 
but  did  you  jump  across  the  pond  also?" 
asked  Van  Vort.  "The  last  time  I  saw  you, 
you  were  going  to  Chicago;  then  I  heard  you 
were  in  London,  and  now  you  make  an  amaz 
ing  appearance  on  a  Jersey  ferry.  You  must 
have  taken  up  jugglery,  old  chap." 

"An  old  loafer  like  you  doesn't  know  any- 


OAKHURST.  167 

thing  about  business;  if  you  did  you  might 
appreciate  my  flights." 

"Never  mind  if  I  don't,"  answered  Van 
Vort,  resting  his  arm  on  the  rail  and  gazing 
into  the  water  as  it  surged  under  the  paddle 
wheels.  "Tell  me  what  took  you  to  London 
and  what  brought  you  back." 

"Well,  I  went  to  Chicago,  as  you  know," 
answered  Duncan,  "to  look  after  an  elevator 
syndicate.  I  was  there  a  week,  got  things 
straightened  up,  took  the  'Limited'  on  Thurs 
day,  reached  New  York  Friday  night,  spent 
Saturday  morning  at  the  office,  and  sailed 
that  afternoon,  on  the  Umbria,  to  look  after 
the  London  end  of  the  scheme." 

"That  was  last  January.  How  have  you 
been  eluding  your  friends  ever  since?" 

"I  was  in  London  until  two  weeks  ago. 
I  came  in  on  the  Etruria  this  morning;  we 
should  have  landed  Sunday,  but  we  broke 
our  shaft  and  had  to  be  towed  in." 

"Well,  Duncan,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  back; 
but  you  must  give  an  account  of  yourself. 
What  did  you  do  in  London  besides  business?" 

"During  February  and  March  I  was  groping 
about  in  the  fog  after  Britons  to  invest  in 


168  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

Chicago  elevators,  or  following  the  hounds  in 
the  Shires.  London  in  winter  is  the  beastli 
est  place  in  Christendom,  and  when  I  could 
get  away  I  was  in  the  country." 

"Yes;  I  know  London  in  the  winter,"  put 
in  Van  Vort.  "Fogs  and  suffocation,  rain  and 
muddy  boots,  slush  and  colds,  sleet  and  influ 
enza,  all  combine  to  make  a  dreary  mackin 
tosh  and  umbrella  existence,  which  you  car. 
vary  in-doors  by  shivering  before  fires  that 
won't  burn." 

"I  see  you've  been  there,"  answered  Dun 
can;  "but  you  want  to  add  something  about 
empty  theatres  and  clubs,  and  say  it  is  a  city 
deserted  by  every  person  who  can  buy,  bor 
row,  or  steal  a  railway  ticket  to  the  country. 
But  for  one  guardian  angel,  I  should  not  be 
here  to  tell  this  tale." 

"I  can  name  that  angel,"  said  Van  Vort ; 
"it  is  Scotch  whiskey." 

"Right !"  answered  Duncan. 

"I  thought  so.  All  sufferers  seek  the  same 
cure;  but  April  and  May  were  better,  weren't 
they?" 

"I  should  think  so." 

"Did  you  meet  many  people?" 


OAKHURST.  169 

"Plenty.  I  fell  in  with  Lady  Brock  on  the 
steamer,  and  she  came  in  handy.  I  knew 
some  people  when  I  was  there  before,  and 
took  out  some  good  letters ;  and  then  there 
is  the  American  colony." 

"Yes,  the  American  colony/'  said  Van  Vort ; 
"who  are  they?" 

"Some  of  them  are  people  one  doesn't  know 
at  home,  but  the  English  don't  mind  that,  so 
why  should  we  ?  You  remember  Mrs.  Raynor, 
that  pretty  woman  who  used  to  be  about  New 
York,  and  afterward  so  scandalized  the  prudes 
by  an  affair  with  a  Russian  Grand  Duke  that 
no  one  received  her  when  she  came  home?" 

"Of  course;    did  you  run  across  her?" 

"Yes;  she  is  in  London  now,  the  smartest 
of  the  smart ;  the  friend  of  the  prince  and 
the  envy  of  American  turf  hunters.  They 
wouldn't  have  her  in  New  York,  but  now 
they  flock  to  her  house  because  she  is  in  the 
London  smart  set,  and  she  is  clever  enough 
to  receive  them  and  forget  the  malarious 
past." 

"I  suppose  you  went  there;  the  malarious 
past  didn't  frighten  you  away." 

"Of  course  not.     I  was  her  right-hand  man, 


170  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

and  used  to  help  entertain  the  people  at  her 
Wednesday  afternoons.  Not  only  that,  but 
I  was  hand-in-glove  with  Mrs.  Smallpage." 

"What !  the  wife  of  the  late  furniture  dealer 
on  Fifth  Avenue?" 

"Yes;  I  didn't  know  her  in  New  York, 
but  she  has  a  house  in  Mayfair  and  hob 
nobs  with  half  the  peerage.  Good  looks  and 
money,  that's  all  the  Londoners  care  for.  I 
heard  a  countess  say  that  all  Americans  are 
alike.  We  have  no  aristocracy,  therefore  our 
social  distinctions  are  absurd.  The  reception 
of  an  American  in  London  depends  on  whether 
he  is  rich  enough  to  entertain,  good  looking 
enough  to  be  attractive,  or  queer  enough  to 
be  amusing." 

"I  say,  Duncan,  we  are  just  getting  into 
the  slip,"  said  Van  Vort,  looking  forward,  "and 
you  haven't  told  me  yet  where  you  are  going, 
and  what  brought  you  aboard  this  ferry." 

"Why,  I  met  Harry  Osgood  this  morning, 
just  after  I  landed,  and  he  asked  me  out  to 
his  place  for  Sunday.  I  hate  New  York  on 
the  blessed  Sabbath,  so  here  I  am." 

"I  am  bound  for  the  Osgoods,  too,"  answered 
Van  Vort.  "I  am  in  luck  to  find  some  one 


OAKHURST.  171 

going  out.     But  come   on,  we   must  hurry  or 
we  sha'n't  get  seats  in  the  train." 

The  ferry-boat  brushed  violently  against  the 
side  of  the  slip,  and  most  of  the  passengers, 
losing  their  balance,  were  compelled  to  grasp 
each  other  unconventionally  for  support.  The 
engine-room  bell  clanged  furiously;  there  were 
more  jars  and  creakings  as  the  boat  scraped 
past  the  great  piles  and  reached  her  moor 
ings;  then  the  restless  van  horses  stamped, 
the  chains  rattled  over  the  windlasses,  and 
the  passengers  crowded  forward  to  the  bows. 
The  iron  gates  were  opened,  and  the  living 
sea  of  people  flowed  rapidly  up  the  incline 
toward  the  railway  station.  It  was  the  mighty 
ebbing  of  the  human  tide  which  daily  floods 
the  great  city  across  the  river.  Could  one 
stand  there,  watching  the  weary  throng  come 
forth,  and,  like  the  Spanish  student  of  old,  find 
a  willing  Asmodaeus  at  one's  elbow,  what  sto 
ries  of  hopes  and  disappointments,  what  tales 
of  trouble  and  misery  could  he  not  unfold 
for  inspection.  Pallid  shop-girls  and  weary 
seamstresses  were  there;  grimy  laborers  with 
their  tools,  tired  clerks,  toiling  mothers  with 
their  babes,  and  pale,  careworn  children,  early 


172  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

driven  to  the  wheel,  with  here  and  there  a  face 
on  whom  prosperity  had  set  her  seal,  and  per 
haps  a  few,  like  Duncan,  whose  lives  are  passed 
in  that  dazzling  upper  world,  so  hopelessly 
closed  to  the  toiling  masses.  All  these,  and 
more,  streamed  off  the  ponderous  ferry,  hur 
rying  to  their  homes.  But  Duncan  and  Van 
Vort  had  no  time  to  moralize,  and  being 
anxious  to  get  seats  in  the  smoking  car  they 
pushed  rapidly  to  the  front  of  the  moving 
mass  of  people,  showed  their  tickets  to  the 
inspector,  and  passed  through  the  station  door 
to  the  platform. 

The  Morristown  train  was  drawn  up  on  the 
right-hand  track.  They  found  it  already  well 
filled  with  people  brought  over  by  the  first 
boat;  and  after  wandering  the  entire  length 
of  the  smoking  car  they  were  about  despairing 
of  finding  seats  when  they  were  hailed  by  a 
familiar  voice:  "Hello,  fellows,  where  are  you 
going?"  Looking  around  they  saw  Howard- 
Jones,  with  a  yellow-covered  novel  under  his 
arm  and  a  freshly  lighted  cigar  between  his 
lips,  standing  on  the  station  platform  and 
looking  the  picture  of  masculine  content. 

"We  are  trying  to  find  a  seat,  but  the  place 


OAKHURST.  173 

is  full,"  said  Duncan.  "Are  you  going  on  this 
train?" 

"Yes;  going  out  to  Osgood's." 

"So  are  we,"  put  in  Van  Vort,  "but  we  don't 
want  to  stand  up  all  the  way.  You  look  as 
unconcerned  as  though  you  were  sporting  a 
private  car." 

"So  I  am,"  replied  Howard-Jones  carelessly. 
"Just  go  into  the  car  ahead  and  find  Water 
man;  mention  the  fact  that  you  are  friends  of 
mine,  and  perhaps  he  will  give  you  a  seat, 
but  be  sure  you  speak  politely.  Waterman 
won't  stand  impertinence." 

"Well,  if  you  and  he  have  seats  in  there, 
and  there  are  ho  more  to  be  had,"  said  Dun 
can,  "you  might  as  well  make  up  your  mind 
to  stand  up.  Come  on,  Rennsler,  let's  see  if 
Howard-Jones  is  trying  to  do  us."  Saying 
this,  Duncan  started  into  the  next  car  and 
was  closely  followed  by  Van  Vort.  This  car 
had  been  kept  till  the  last  moment,  so  they 
found  it  just  filling  up,  and  at  the  farther  end 
they  discovered  Waterman,  trying  to  stretch 
himself  over  four  seats  and  convince  the 
numerous  comers  that  they  were  engaged. 

"I   beg   pardon,  but    can   a   lady  have   this 


174  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

seat?"  said  Duncan,  coming  up  behind  Water 
man. 

"I  am  sorry,  but  it's  engaged,"  grunted  the 
latter  without  looking  up.  "This  is  a  smoker 
anyway." 

"Well,  this  lady  is  going  to  sit  on  your  lap, 
you  old  brute." 

"Hello,  Duncan,"  said  Waterman,  looking 
up  somewhat  startled.  "Osgood  told  me  you 
were  back;  I  am  deuced  glad  to  see  you." 

"Pull  down  those  feet  and  give  us  some 
room,  and  then  I'll  talk,"  answered  Duncan. 

Waterman  made  room  for  his  friends,  and 
depositing  their  luggage  on  the  floor  they 
sat  down  opposite  him.  As  the  train  moved 
slowly  out  of  the  station,  Howard-Jones  saun 
tered  into  the  car  and  took  the  seat  remaining, 
next  to  Waterman. 

"Well,  how  is  Chicago?"  Waterman  asked 
Duncan. 

"Don't  talk  to  him  about  Chicago,"  inter 
rupted  Van  Vort.  "Don't  you  know  he  has 
just  come  from  London?" 

"Of  course  I  do,  but  I  know  all  about  Lon 
don.  I  want  to  hear  about  Mr.  Breezy  and 
Miss  Lakeside,  and  all  the  other  queer  people 


OAKHURST.  175 

one  reads  about  in  Life  and  Puck.  Don't  you 
remember  the  last  time  we  saw  Duncan?  He 
was  going  gunning  for  elevators,  and  I  want 
to  hear  about  them.  How  are  the  pork-pack 
ers,  Duncan?" 

"I  didn't  meet  any." 

"What,  and  you  went  to  Chicago !" 

"Exactly,"  Duncan  replied.  "They  say  there 
that  one  has  to  go  away  to  meet  them.  The 
right  sort  don't  seem  to  know  them." 

"What  were  the  people  like,  anyway?"  asked 
Howard-Jones. 

"The  women  are  dears,  some  of  the  men 
are  queer,  most  of  them  are  passable,  and  a 
few  are  the  whitest  chaps  I  ever  came  across. 
I  was  treated  like  a  prince.  I  lived  at  the 
City  Club,  and  they  could  not  do  enough  for 
me  there." 

"Did  you  get  anything  fit  to  eat?"  asked 
Howard-Jones  dubiously. 

"You  must  imagine  the  people  out  there 
eat  jerked  venison  and  dine  in  their  shirt 
sleeves,"  replied  Duncan.  "They  don't  live 
in  wigwams,  and  buffalo  don't  run  wild  in 
the  streets." 

"Don't  get  huffy,  Duncan;   I  was  only  judg- 


176  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. . 

ing  by  what  I  had  heard.  You  remember 
what  Waterman  said  about  Chicago." 

"Yes,  and  I  repeat  again/'  replied  that 
worthy,  "it  is  the  beastliest  hole  it  has  ever 
been  my  luck  to  get  stranded  in." 

"Then  you  display  your  ignorance,"  said 
Duncan. 

"I  admit  I  have  heard  something  about 
Chicago  being  the  centre  of  the  universe," 
retorted  Waterman,  "but  I  thought  that  opin 
ion  was  confined  to  the  breezy  inhabitants  of 
the  windy  city." 

"Well,  in  my  opinion,"  said  Duncan,  "Chi 
cago  isn't  a  half  bad  place.  Tisn't  New  York, 
of  course,  but  you  can't  expect  that.  They've 
got  most  of  the  things  there  that  we  have, 
and  some  that  we  haven't.  There's  one  thing 
about  the  people,  too,  that  I  like;  they  keep 
awake  when  the  rest  of  the  world  is  dozing, 
and  that  is  bound  to  tell  in  the  end." 

"That's  right,  Duncan,"  echoed   Van  Vort. 

"Sit  down  on  sectional  ignorance  and  prej 
udice.  New  Yorkers  are  getting  to  be  as 
provincial  as  Parisians,  and  it  is  time  they 
learned  that  the  sun  doesn't  rise  and  set  on 
Manhattan  Island." 


OAKHURST.  177 

"You  are  all  wrong,  Rennsler,"  answered 
Howard-Jones.  "Duncan  is  drawing  a  big 
salary  for  booming  Chicago  real  estate;  you'd 
do  the  same  thing  if  you  got  paid  for  it." 

"No  back  talk,  Hyphenated-Jones,"  said 
Duncan  facetiously.  Just  crawl  behind  that 
French  novel  and  don't  let  me  hear  from  you 
again." 

"I  will  if  you  will  shut  up  about  Chicago; 
you  make  me  weary." 

"Anything  to  keep  you  quiet,"  answered 
Duncan. 

The  four  friends  gradually  settled  them 
selves  behind  afternoon  papers  or  novels,  and 
remained  silent.  The  train  rattled  on  through 
small  suburban  towns  and  now  and  then  drew 
up  before  a  dainty,  vine-covered  station,  with 
low  walls  and  high  gabled  roofs,  where  the 
brakeman  put  his  head  inside  the  door  and 
called  off  some  name  in  unintelligible  accents. 
People  got  out  hurriedly,  their  arms  filled 
with  packages  of  all  descriptions,  the  door 
slammed,  the  train  started,  the  newsboy 
passed  through  with  the  papers,  pop-corn, 
puzzles,  and  everything  else  that  nobody 
wanted,  the  conductor  poked  dozing  passen- 

12 


178  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

gers  for  their  tickets,  the  atmosphere  grew 
blue  with  smoke,  and  the  minutes  passed 
with  the  exasperating  slowness  of  time  spent 
on  a  suburban  train. 

"I  say,  Duncan,"  said  Waterman,  yawning 
behind  his  paper,  "how  would  you  like  to 
take  this  trip  twice  a  day?" 

"I'd  rather  die  a  natural  death  and  be 
done  with  it,  if  I  did  not  have  a  private  opin 
ion  that  Hades  is  a  suburban  town,  where 
the  Devil  tortures  his  victims  by  making  them 
bolt  breakfast  in  two  minutes  and  run  to  catch 
a  train,  only  to  be  brought  back  again  after 
dark  just  in  time  to  sleep  and  take  the  next 
train  in  the  morning." 

"That's  the  joy  of  living  in  the  country," 
replied  Waterman.  "However,  I  can  tell  you 
how  to  pass  the  time  to-day." 

"How?"    asked   Duncan. 

"Go  back  and  talk  to  the  Simpson  girls. 
I  saw  them  getting  into  the  last  car,  and 
I  think  they  are  going  out  to  Osgood's,  too." 

"None  of  that  for  me." 

"Better  send  Rennsler  to  look  after  them," 
suggested  Waterman;  "I  think  I  can  recom 
mend  him  as  a  safe  and  suitable  chaperon." 


OAKHURST.  179 

"What's  that?"  said  Van  Vort,  glancing 
over  his  paper  at  the  sound  of  his  name. 

"We  think  you  had  better  go  back  and 
talk  to  the  charming  Miss  Simpson,"  said 
Duncan. 

"Which?  The  one  with  freckles,  or  the  one 
who  squints." 

"Both,"    replied    Waterman. 

"From  such  a  fate,  good  Lord  deliver  us," 
answered  Van  Vort  contritely. 

"Your  prayer  is  answered,"  said  Duncan, 
"for  here  we  are  at  the  getting-off  place.  I 
never  remember  the  name  of  it,  so  I  always 
book  through  to  Morristown,  and  look  out 
for  that  red  barn  over  there." 

The  engine  slackened  its  pace  while  the 
four  friends  hurriedly  gathered  their  things 
together  and  walked  toward  the  car  door. 
When  the  train  stopped  they  passed  out  and 
alighted  on  the  deserted  platform  of  a  small 
country  station.  The  village  consisted  of 
three  or  four  houses  and  a  barn,  and  the 
station  was  merely  a  covered  shed  and  plat 
form,  without  the  usual  complement  of  station- 
master,  baggageman,  etc.  It  was  of  so  little 
importance  that  trains  did  not  stop  there 


180  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

except  by  signal  or  request,  and  the  Osgoods 
made  use  of  it  merely  because  it  was  nearer 
their  place  than  was  Morristown.  On  this 
occasion,  however,  there  was  no  one  there  to 
meet  the  travelers,  and  it  seemed  to  them 
that  they  had  been  forgotten.  The  train 
had  pulled  out  immediately,  and  they  were 
left  to  their  own  resources  in  a  small,  New 
Jersey  hamlet,  four  miles  from  their  destina 
tion.  There  was  no  one  in  sight  except  the 
Simpson  girls,  who  had  alighted  at  the  other 
end  of  the  platform,  and  the  four  men  felt 
it  their  duty  to  wander  toward  them  and  prof 
fer  such  civilities  as  the  occasion  demanded. 

"We  had  no  idea  you  were  on  the  train/* 
said  Duncan,  as  they  reached  the  place  where 
the  girls  were  standing.  "I  suppose  you  are 
bound  for  the  Osgoods?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  elder  Miss  Simpson,  "but 
we  seem  to  be  stranded  here.  What  shall  we 
do?" 

"Wait  until  we  are  rescued,"  said  Van  Vort. 
"I  don't  believe  Osgood  is  cruel  enough  to 
leave  us  here  long." 

"No,  by  Jove!  for  there  are  his  leaders," 
interposed  Waterman,  as  a  team  of  chestnuts 


OAKHURST.  181 

and  a  smart  char-a-bancs,  driven  by  Harry 
Osgood  himself,  with  his  wife  on  the  box  seat, 
swept  rapidly  around  the  corner  of  Duncan's 
red  barn.  There  were  two  girls  sitting  behind 
the  Osgoods,  whom  they  recognized  as  Miss 
Warner  and  Miss  Reine  Merrit, — two  of  their 
set, — and  the  men  had  just  time  to  take  off 
their  hats  before  the  trap  was  driven  up  beside 
the  platform. 

"Been  waiting  long?"  called  Osgood,  as  he 
pulled  up  his  team.  "My  near  leader  picked 
up  a  stone,  and  I  have  the  stage  timed  so 
close  that  any  delay  makes  me  late." 

"It  will  teach  you  to  take  more  time, 
Harry,"  said  his  wife,  as,  without  accepting 
the  proffered  aid  of  a  servant,  she  jumped  to 
the  ground.  "How  do  you  do,  everybody," 
she  continued,  when  she  lighted  on  the  plat 
form.  "Why,  Duncan  Grahame!  Where  in 
heaven's  name  did  you  come  from?" 

"From  London,  to  see  you,  but  I  don't 
seem  to  be  expected,"  replied  Duncan. 

"I  forgot  to  tell  Helen  I  had  asked  you, 
but  it's  all  right,"  called  Harry  Osgood  from 
his  high  seat. 

"Of    course   it   is,"  replied    his  wife,  "but    I 


182  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

wish  you  wouldn't  shock  me  so  again.  I 
thought  I  had  seen  a  ghost." 

"Never  mind  ghosts,  but  get  the  people 
up,"  said  her  husband. 

Harry  Osgood's  char-a-bancs  was  a  vehicle 
he  had  had  constructed  for  use  over  the  rough 
country  roads.  It  was  built  somewhat  like 
the  two  boots  of  a  drag  put  together  without 
the  body,  and  had  seats  for  ten  persons,  be 
sides  the  servants,  placed  in  three  rows,  and 
all  facing  forward,  while  its  lightness  ren 
dered  it  very  convenient  for  the  purpose  for 
which  it  was  designed.  The  servants  stowed 
the  luggage  away  and  Mrs.  Osgood  assigned 
places  to  the  party.  The  elder  Miss  Simpson 
was  given  the  box  seat,  the  next  was  occu 
pied  by  Reine  Merrit,  Waterman,  Howard- 
Jones,  and  the  younger  Miss  Simpson,  while 
Miss  Warner,  Van  Vort,  Duncan  and  Helen 
Osgood  mounted  to  the  remaining  one. 

"Let  em  go,"  shouted  Osgood  as  he  shoved 
the  brake  back.  The  grooms  jumped  from 
the  horses  heads,  the  wheelers  sprang  into 
their  collars,  and  the  trap  rolled  away  from 
the  station.  "Oakhurst,"  the  Osgood  place, 
was  a  short  four  miles  distant,  and  the  road, 


OAKHURST.  183 

a  fairly  good  one  for  America,  ran,  for  the 
most  part,  through  a  forest  of  maples,  broken 
here  and  there  by  the  country  seat  of  some 
New  Yorker,  or  an  occasional  farm.  The 
country  was  quite  rolling,  and  the  road,  run 
ning  as  it  did  over  a  succession  of  small  hills, 
made  the  driving  a  delight  to  Harry  Osgood. 
He  was  a  coachman  who  had  learned  his 
trade  in  England,  and  having  been  a  subscri 
ber  to  the  Guildford  Coach  for  two  seasons, 
he  was  able  to  "sit  his  bench"  like  a  veteran, 
and  work  his  team  with  the  smartness  of  one 
who  has  done  "out  of  London  roading";  but, 
with  all  his  experience  he  was  not  a  careful 
workman.  He  invariably  made  the  four  miles, 
from  the  station  to  his  house,  a  galloping 
stage,  and  it  was  his  pride  to  do  the  distance 
just  under  the  twenty  minutes;  so,  as  soon  as 
he  turned  the  corner  by  the  red  barn,  he 
sprang  his  team  into  a  gallop,  and  they 
scarcely  trotted  another  step  of  the  way.  Up 
hill  and  down  the  horses  scampered,  while 
the  trap  rocked  like  a  ship  at  sea,  now  to  this 
side  and  now  to  that,  and  when  rounding  the 
corners  it  often  seemed  as  though  the  vehicle 
would  certainlv  be  turned  over  and  the  entire 


184  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

party  landed  in  a  hopeless  muddle  in  the 
ditch;  but  nothing  worse  than  a  few  feminine 
screams  occurred  until  they  reached  the  place 
where  the  road  entered  the  Morristown  turn 
pike. 

Here  Osgood  espied  another  team  coming 
up  the  main  road,  and  as  both  traps  were 
about  an  equal  distance  from  the  fork,  he 
considered  it  a  glorious  chance  for  a  race;  so, 
giving  his  horses  their  heads,  he  urged  them 
into  a  run.  The  driver  of  the  other  four,  as 
ready  for  sport  as  Osgood,  did  the  same,  and 
the  two  traps  came  furiously  on  to  where  the 
roads  met.  The  men  cheered  while  the  women 
held  on  to  their  seats,  trembling  with  fright; 
and  as  the  two  traps  came  together  at  the 
fork,  the  other  coachman  tried  to  crowd  in 
front  of  Osgood  by  taking  some  of  the  latter's 
road.  There  was  no  time  to  pull  up,  and  see 
ing  that  his  only  safety  from  a  wicked  upset 
was  to  beat  his  rival,  Osgood  called  on  his 
horses  for  an  extra  spurt.  The  leaders  were 
neck  and  neck,  and  the  stranger  had  crowded 
him  so  far  toward  the  edge  of  the  road  that 
he  felt  his  hind  wheel  slipping  down  the  em 
bankment.  The  women  shut  their  eyes  and 


OAKHURST.  185 

screamed  while  the  men  prepared  to  jump, 
but  Osgood,  acting  with  presence  of  mind,  hit 
his  rival's  off-wheeler  across  the  head  with  his 
whip,  and  "toweled"  his  own  wheelers  a  good 
stinging  cut  across  the  shoulders.  The  wheel 
horse  of  the  other  trap,  frightened  at  this 
sudden  attack,  jumped  toward  the  pole,  and, 
with  his  weight,  swayed  the  vehicle  toward 
the  near  side  of  the  road,  while  Osgood's  own 
wheelers  sprang  forward  under  the  lashing 
and  drew  the  trap  onto  the  road  before  it 
had  time  to  upset.  Osgood  darted  ahead  of 
his  rival,  and  the  party  breathed  freer  as  all 
visions  of  broken  limbs  and  mangled  bodies 
vanished  from  their  frightened  minds. 

"Well  done,  old  man,"  called  Howard-Jones, 
who  was  himself  a  coaching  man.  "I  like 
sport,  but  such  a  lubberly  bit  of  work  as  that 
ought  not  to  go  unpunished." 

"A  man  who  will  do  a  trick  like  that  ought 
not  to  be  trusted  with  a  donkey,"  replied 
Osgood,  as  he  pulled  his  team  together  after 
the  excitement  of  the  spurt. 

"That's  the  trouble,  nowadays,"  continued 
Howard-Jones.  "After  a  lesson  or  two  in  the 
park,  at  team  work,  chaps  set  up  as  ex 
perienced  coachmen." 


186  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

"Who  is  the  duffer,  anyway?"  called  Dun 
can  from  behind. 

"Jack  Ashton.  You  know  him,  don't  you  ?" 
replied  Howard-Jones.  "He  has  the  place 
just  beyond  Harry's." 

"I  ought  to,"  said  Duncan.  "He  v/as  in 
my  class  at  college.  I  didn't  recognize  him, 
though." 

"Do  you  always  forget  your  friends  so 
easily?"  said  Helen  Osgood  with  an  ironical 
sparkle  in  her  blue-black  eyes. 

"Sometimes  I  try  to,"  Duncan  answered. 

"Are  you  always  successful?"  she  asked. 

"No,  Helen,"  he  whispered,  "not  always." 

The  trap  had  reached  the  stone  gateway  of 
the  Osgood  place.  As  they  turned  in,  a  call 
was  sounded  on  the  horn  to  announce  their 
coming  to  the  servants,  and,  after  passing  the 
lodge,  they  could  see  the  low,  white  country 
house,  with  rambling  wings  and  numerous 
stables  and  outhouses  in  the  rear,  standing 
on  a  rise  of  ground  at  the  end  of  the  wind 
ing  road.  The  place  had  been  in  the  Osgood 
family  for  more  than  a  hundred  years.  The 
oak-covered  grounds  about  the  house,  and  the 
green,  rolling  lawn  in  front,  were  typical  of  an 


OAKHURST.  187 

English  park;  but  the  old  wooden,  colonial 
house,  with  its  rambling  additions  and  green 
blinds,  its  stately  veranda  and  Doric  columned 
portico,  was  American,  of  a  type  fast  disap 
pearing  before  the  modern  house  decorator 
with  his  tints  and  bibelots. 

The  trap  dashed  up  to  the  door,  a  knot  of 
servants  appeared,  the  grooms  placed  the  lad 
der  against  the  steps,  and  the  guests  alighted 
and  were  conducted  to  their  apartments,  where, 
for  the  next  hour,  the  house  party  was  occu 
pied  in  the  task  of  dressing  for  dinner. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"I   WILL   LAUGH,   TOO." 

Harry  Osgood  was  a  man  whose  life  was 
devoted  to  sport,  and  as  he  had  inherited  a 
large  fortune,  he  was  able  to  indulge  his  tastes 
to  the  fullest  extent.  Some  one  of  his  friends 
had  said  facetiously,  that  he  was  fond  of 
horses,  hounds,  and  his  wife,  in  the  order 
named,  and  no  one  who  knew  him  well  would 
deny  that  more  of  his  life  was  spent  in  his 
stables  and  kennels  than  in  his  home.  He 
had  passed  many  years  in  England,  and  most 
of  his  time  there  was  spent  in  a  hard  riding 
country,  where  everyone,  including  the  parson, 
followed  the  hounds.  To  Osgood,  therefore, 
there  was  no  sport  like  hunting,  and  no  music 
like  the  inspiriting  cry  of  the  pack.  He  had 
been  brought  up  on  the  upigskin"  and  felt  a 
supreme  contempt  for  many  of  the  men  about 
New  York  who  went  in  for  sport,  not  for  the 
love  of  it,  but  as  a  pose  which  enabled  them 
to  wear  the  pink  and  talk  the  slang  of  the 

188 


"/  WILL  LAUGH,  TOO"  189 

shires.  He  had  seen  so  many  chaps  of  that 
description  come  an  ignominious  "cropper"  at 
the  first  fence,  that  he  paid  little  attention 
to  the  talk  of  the  clubs,  and  never  passed  his 
opinion  on  a  would-be  sportsman  until  he  saw 
him  in  the  hunting  field.  In  his  opinion  it 
took  something  more  than  a  pink  coat  to 
make  a  hunting  man,  so  he  endeavored  to 
collect  around  him,  in  New  Jersey,  a  few  of 
as  hard  riders  as  ever  followed  hounds. 

The  Essex  Hunt  had  become  famous  for  its 
long  runs,  and  as  few  men  not  born  to  the 
saddle  cared  to  risk  their  necks  over  the  roll 
ing  country  about  Morristown,  this  hunt  was 
decidedly  unpopular  with  the  drawing-room 
sportsmen.  However,  if  the  field  was  small 
at  the  meet,  it  diminished  little  at  the  finish. 
For  years  Harry  Osgood  had  been  M.  F.  M.  of 
the  Essex  Hunt,  and  the  pack  could  not  have 
been  in  better  hands,  as  he  had  a  capital 
huntsman  of  long  experience  with  the  Quorn 
Hunt,  and  he  devoted  his  own  time,  during 
the  hunting  season,  entirely  to  the  sport.  Os 
good  had  this  peculiarity,  however,  he  must 
have  sport  all  the  year  round;  so  he  was  as 
much  at  home  on  the  box  seat,  or  at  the 


190  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

tiller,  as  in  the  saddle.  There  is  a  popular 
impression  that  a  man  cannot  be  both  a  horse 
man  and  a  sailor,  but  Harry  Osgood  had 
often  refuted  it.  In  the  summer  months, 
when  there  was  no  hunting,  and  it  was  too  hot 
for  driving,  he  went  to  sea,  and  his  schooner, 
"Persephone,"  was  one  of  *the  crack  flyers  of 
the  N.  Y.  Y.  C.  fleet,  while  her  owner  was  a 
qualified  navigator  who  had  taken  an  English 
Board  of  Trade  yachtsman's  certificate. 

It  is,  therefore,  not  surprising  that  Helen 
Osgood  entered  little  into  her  husband's  life, 
for,  except  when  frost  was  in  the  ground,  he 
had  no  time  to  devote  to  his  wife.  Helen, 
however,  heartily  approved  of  his  neglect,  and, 
except  for  the  fact  that  he  compelled  her  to 
reside  so  much  of  the  time  in  the  country, 
was  perfectly  satisfied  with  her  husband.  She 
always  managed  to  have  at  least  one  amusing 
man  in  the  house  who  did  not  go  in  for  hunt 
ing,  and  as  she  never  interfered  with  Harry's 
sport,  theirs  was  a  menage  where  husband 
and  wife  were  both  contented  and  amused. 
The  world  had  been  surprised  at  Harry  Os- 
good's  marriage,  but  probably  no  one  was 
more  astonished  than  himself.  A  country 


"/  WILL  LAUGH,  TOO"  191 

house,  a  rare  day's  sport,  a  good  dinner,  a 
cozy  corner,  a  pair  of  bewitching  blue-black 
eyes,  a  hasty  word,  and  his  fate  was  sealed 
before  he  had  had  time  fully  to  realize  the 
situation;  but,  having  been  "landed,"  as  he 
expressed  it,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  bear  it 
like  a  man  and  make  the  best  of  a  hasty 
bargain.  The  marriage  was,  however,  no  sur 
prise  to  Helen.  She  had  carefully  arranged 
it  in  her  mind  several  months  before,  and 
Harry  Osgood's  proposal  was  but  the  consum 
mation  of  her  plans.  He  was  precisely  the 
kind  of  man  that  she  considered  an  attract 
ive,  poor  girl  ought  to  marry,  and  women  like 
Helen  seem  to  possess  a  faculty  for  adjusting 
their  lives  according  to  their  desires.  She  was 
the  only  woman  whom  Duncan  Grahame  had 
ever  asked  to  be  his  wife,  and  perhaps  for 
the  reason  that  she  had  refused  him,  she  con 
tinued  to  occupy  the  most  central  cell  of  his 
somewhat  honeycombed  heart.  She  had  de 
clined  to  marry  Duncan  because,  at  that  time, 
he  was  poor,  and  she  knew  that  he  possessed 
too  quick  a  perception,  and  too  arbitrary  a 
disposition,  to  be  a  suitable  husband  for  a 
woman  of  her  ambitions.  She  had,  however, 


192  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

since  her  marriage,  granted  Duncan  the  privi 
leges  of  a  somewhat  equivocal  friendship, 
which,  owing  to  a  general  misconception  of 
Helen  Osgood's  character,  the  world  often 
misapprehended.  Her  acquaintances  fancied 
her  unhappy  in  her  home  life,  but  she  was 
perfectly  contented.  Her  friends  believed  she 
was  a  woman  of  strong  feelings  and  sympa 
thies,  but  she  was  subtle  and  calculating. 
The  world  thought  her  friendship  for  Duncan 
must  be  of  a  serious  nature,  while,  in  reality, 
it  was  scarcely  more  than  a  passe  temps. 
Though  not  harassed  by  any  scruples,  she 
was  too  cold  really  to  love,  and  too  clever 
actually  to  compromise  herself.  But  she  was, 
however,  sufficiently  selfish  to  receive  without 
giving,  and  sufficiently  vain  to  enjoy  the  con 
tinued  admiration  of  so  scarred  and  complex 
a  heart  as  Duncan's.  She  had  been  gifted 
with  a  peculiar  insight  into  human  character, 
and  having  studied  the  nature  of  man  as  a 
scientist  might  that  of  a  mollusk,  she  felt 
that  she  understood  every  masculine  vagary. 
Prompted  mostly  by  curiosity,  she  singled  out 
Duncan  as  the  specimen  best  calculated  to 
demand  the  full  exercise  of  her  powers.  If 


"/  WILL  LA  UGH,  TOO."  193 

she  had,  at  times,  permitted  certain  familiari 
ties  which  the  world  might  not  entirely  ap 
prove,  she  had  been  careful  to  define  the 
boundaries  beyond  which  they  must  not  pass; 
and  the  fact  that  his  actions  were  governed 
in  a  manner  so  contrary  to  his  wishes  kept 
Duncan  in  a  continuous  state  of  irritation,  and 
served  at  the  same  time  to  produce  a  con 
tinuity  of  affection  quite  unusual  in  his  other 
experiences. 

For  nearly  four  years  this  peculiar  friend 
ship,  so  galling  to  Duncan,  so  gratifying  to 
Helen,  had  continued  intermittently;  and 
though  many  ruptures  had  occurred,  they 
had  all  ended  in  Duncan's  suing  for  peace. 
The  long  continuance  of  so  unnatural  a  rela 
tion  was  rendered  possible  only  by  the  fact 
that  Helen  Osgood  had,  so  far,  been  incapable 
of  experiencing  the  feelings  of  other  women, 
and  seeing  no  reason  to  transgress  where  there 
was  no  temptation,  she  contented  herself  with 
inspiring  a  love  where  others  excited  a  pass 
ing  fancy.  Other  women  might  amuse  Dun 
can,  but  she  would  control  him;  other  women 
might  love  him,  but  she  would  study  him; 
other  women  might  lose  him,  but  she  would 

13 


194  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

remain  his  master.  That  was  her  analysis 
of  the  affair,  and,  so  far,  she  felt  that  it  had 
been  correct.  It  is  true  she  had  not  seen 
Duncan  since  the  quarrel  in  January,  and  she 
knew  that  he  must,  in  the  meantime,  have 
been  intimate  with  other  women;  but  she  felt 
confident  that  he  would  come  back  to  her 
and  plead  again  for  the  love  she  had  so  often 
refused  him.  She  did  not  believe  that  Dun 
can's  passion  was  of  a  lofty  nature.  On  the 
contrary,  she  doubted  his  sincerity  just  as  she 
doubted  the  sincerity  of  every  man  of  the 
world.  She  knew  perfectly  well  the  view  of 
life  held  by  the  men  about  her,  and  she  often 
said  that  were  she  a  man  she  would  be  a  free 
booter  too,  and  capture  the  hearts  that  came  in 
her  way.  She  thought  that  if  a  woman  was 
weak  enough  to  be  trapped  into  taking  a  false 
step,  she  got  her  deserts.  She,  for  one,  would 
go  armed,  not  because  her  conscience  troubled 
her,  but  because  she  did  not  consider  the 
game  worth  the  risk. 

The  unexpected  return  of  Duncan  had 
been  somewhat  of  a  surprise  to  Helen;  but, 
in  order  to  impress  upon  him  that  it  was 
a  matter  of  indifference  to  her,  she  avoided 


"/  WILL  LAUGH,  TOO."  195 

him  as  much  as  possible  during  the  evening 
of  his  arrival  at  Oakhurst.  The  house  party 
spent  the  evening  playing  pool  in  the  billiard- 
room,  and  in  that  atmosphere  of  whiskey, 
soda,  and  smoke,  where  the  conversation  was 
hilarious  and  general,  and  often  interspersed 
with  familiar  repartee  and  laughter,  it  was 
not  difficult  for  Helen  to  keep  Duncan  at  a 
convenient  distance,  while,  however  much  he 
might  chafe  under  the  restraint,  he  was  unable 
to  free  himself  from  his  unpleasant  position. 
There  is  nothing  so  exasperating  to  a  man 
of  Duncan's  disposition  and  experience  as 
to  feel  that  he  is  being  made  a  fool  of  by 
a  woman.  Though  nothing  had  been  said, 
Duncan  realized  the  galling  fact  that  Helen 
Osgood  was  playing  with  him.  After  the 
women  had  gone  to  bed  he  sat  in  the  smok 
ing-room,  sulking  over  his  "  night-cap,"  and 
though  Osgood  and  Howard-Jones  carried  on 
a  heated  discussion  about  the  merits  of  perch 
bits,  he  paid  not  the  slightest  attention  to 
what  was  being  said.  Waterman  and  Van 
Vort  occasionally  tried  to  chaff  him,  but  he 
was  so  snappish  in  his  manner  that  they  wisely 
decided  to  let  him  alone.  Meanwhile  Duncan 


196  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

was  thinking  of  the  time,  at  Newport,  when, 
jogging  home  after  a  day  with  the  hounds, 
he  had  asked  Helen  Osgood  to  marry  him. 
He  had  felt  confident  that  she  would  do  so, 
but  instead,  he  got  laughed  at  for  his  sincer 
ity,  and  he  had  been  laughed  at  ever  since. 
He  had  often  brought  himself  to  the  point  of 
believing  that  he  did  not  care  for  her,  but 
the  next  time  he  was  brought  under  her  sub 
tle  influence  he  was  compelled  to  acknowl 
edge  that  he  was  still  under  her  spell.  Other 
women  had  surrendered  to  him  with  a  facility 
that  destroyed  the  pleasure  of  an  exciting 
contest,  but  other  women  were  not  Helen 
Osgood. 

The  next  morning  none  of  the  house  party 
put  in  an  appearance  before  eleven  o'clock, 
and  it  was  not  until  luncheon  that  they  all 
met  together.  Some  of  the  men  had,  it  is 
true,  been  out  to  the  kennels,  and  Osgood  and 
Howard-Jones  had  taken  out  a  tandem — much 
to  the  horror  of  neighboring  Sabbath-keepers 
— but  Mrs.  Osgood  and  the  girls  managed  to 
keep  secluded  until  the  luncheon-hour.  Din 
ner  was  the  only  formal  meal  at  Oakhurst,  and 
there  was  a  freedom  about  the  life  that  made 


"/  WILL  LA  UGH,  TOO"  197 

it  very  attractive  to  the  men.  Any  sort  of 
lounging  costume  was  permissible  during  the 
daytime,  and  the  guests  straggled  in  at  lunch 
eon  without  regard  for  promptness.  No  one 
waited  for  the  others,  and  the  last  to  come 
was  the  last  to  be  served.  The  conversation 
was  chiefly  about  horses  and  dogs,  with  social 
gossip  for  a  relish,  but  no  topic  more  intel 
lectual  than  the  last  French  novel  or  the  latest 
comedy  at  Daly's  was  permissible.  In  fact, 
any  one  bold  enough  to  inaugurate  a  literary 
or  political  discussion  would  have  been  greeted 
with  a  stare  of  mingled  pity  and  astonish 
ment.  If  any  of  the  guests  were  acquainted 
with  matters  literary  or  artistic,  they  were 
usually  discreet  enough  to  remain  silent  out 
of  deference  to  the  host;  but  on  one  occasion 
a  school  friend  of  Helen's,  from  Boston,  hear 
ing  some  remarks  about  the  last  story  of 
Bourget,  took  the  opportunity  to  start  a  dis 
cussion  upon  the  poetic  psychology  of  Sully- 
Prudhomme,  which  was  greeted  in  a  manner 
that  made  the  poor  girl  fancy  she  had  said 
something  very  indiscreet.  At  the  first  favor 
able  opportunity,  however,  Helen  reassured 
her,  but  advised  her  not  to  talk  about  books, 


198  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

if  she  wanted  to  get  on  with  the  Essex  Hunt. 

On  the  present  occasion  the  conversation 
was  confined  to  the  stables,  and  after  luncheon 
the  house  party  sought  amusement  for  the 
afternoon.  Osgood  suggested  a  drive,  so  a 
team  was  put  to  the  drag,  and  the  afternoon, 
until  tea-time,  was  spent  behind  three  chest 
nuts  and  a  piebald  "tooled"  by  the  host. 

Meanwhile  Duncan  chafed  under  the  disci 
pline  to  which  he  felt  he  was  being  carefully 
subjected,  but  it  was  not  until  after  an  elabo 
rately  prepared  dinner,  served  by  the  late  butler 
of  His  Grace,  the  Duke  of  Northampton,  and 
two  footmen,  that  he  was  permitted  a  word 
alone  with  Helen.  The  other  guests  had  gone 
into  the  drawing-room,  at  Helen's  suggestion, 
to  listen  to  Van  Vort's  latest  comic  song,  and 
feeling  that  they  would  be  off  her  hands 
for  a  while,  she  detained  Duncan  in  the  pass 
age-way  leading  to  the  library.  Between  the 
two  doors  was  a  broad  lounge,  which  had  been 
placed  there  to  offer  an  opportunity  for  a 
quiet  talk,  and  Helen  took  the  initiative  by 
seating  herself  and  motioning  Duncan  to  a 
place  beside  her.  He  sat  down  sulkily,  and 
remained  silent  for  a  while,  trying  to  drive 


"/  WILL  LAUGH,  TOO."  199 

off  the  peculiarly  helpless  feeling  which  a  man 
invariably  experiences  in  the  presence  of  a 
woman  whose  personality  is  stronger  than  his 
own.  Duncan  plunged  his  hands  into  his 
pockets  and  sank  into  a  corner  of  the  lounge, 
mentally  deciding  that  he  was  an  ass,  and 
trying  to  bring  his  reason  to  control  his  feel 
ings.  He  looked  at  Helen  a  moment,  but 
when  he  met  her  glance,  he  winced  and  turned 
his  eyes  away,  and  she  felt  that  she  had  not 
been  wrong  in  her  confidence  that  he  would 
come  back  to  her  unchanged. 

"You  are  solemn  enough  for  a  croque-mort" 
said  Helen,  after  a  few  moments  of  silence. 
"Aren't  you  going  to  amuse  me  ?" 

"No,"  grunted  Duncan  peevishly,  "you 
brought  me  here." 

"I  didn't  bring  you  here  to  sulk.  I  hope, 
for  your  own  sake,  you  haven't  been  behav 
ing  this  way  for  the  past  six  months.  I 
understand  you,  but  strangers  might  not  ap 
preciate  such  manners."  She  said  this  in  the 
indifferent  manner  she  invariably  assumed 
when  Duncan  indulged  in  a  display  of  tem 
per,  and  it  was  this  indifference  which  always 
made  his  outbursts  so  abortive. 


200  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

"There  is  no  need  to  behave  so  with  strang 
ers,"  he  replied,  trying  to  assume  a  sarcastic 
manner,  and  feeling,  inwardly,  that  it  was  not 
successful.  "They  are  usually  civil  to  me." 

"O,  indeed  !  and  pray  how  do  I  treat  you  ?" 

"Like  a  dog,"  he  sneered  gruffly. 

"Like  a  pet  poodle,"  she  replied,  "whom  I 
allow  to  lie  about  the  house  in  the  snuggest 
corners;  like  a  pet  poodle  whom  I  fondle 
when  he  is  agreeable,  and  humor  when  he  is 
snappish;  but  take  care  how  you  behave  or 
I  may  think  you  are  only  a  puppy." 

Duncan  jumped  to  his  feet.  "I  won't  be 
blackguarded,"  he  muttered  angrily. 

Helen  leaned  forward  and  caught  his  hand. 

"Come,  Duncan,  dear,"  she  said,  drawing 
him  gently  toward  her,  "you  must  sit  down 
and  tell  me  who  it  was  that  commenced  this 
quarrel." 

Duncan  permitted  himself  to  be  drawn  to 
the  seat  beside  her.  His  heart  was  consumed 
with  conflicting  sentiments,  but  he  felt  that 
the  courage  which  had  made  the  quarrel  in 
January  possible  was  failing,  and  that  he 
Avould  be  compelled  to  sue  for  peace.  "I  am 
not  a  child,"  he  said,  as  though  to  expostu 
late  against  her  manner. 


"/  WILL  LAUGH,  TOO"  201 

"Yes,  you  are,"  answered  Helen  softly,  "but 
a  big,  lovable  child  of  whom  I  am  very  fond." 

Duncan  looked  into  her  eyes  to  see  if  he 
could  read  behind  her  words,  but  he  only  felt 
the  deep,  mysterious  power  which  had  brought 
him  under  her  influence  that  day  in  Newport. 
Then  he  had  felt  a  hopeful,  honest  love,  for  a 
moment,  but  it  had  been  crushed  out  by  her 
laughter.  Before  that  he  had  been  a  thought 
less  boy,  taking  life  as  only  a  holiday  frolic. 
Had  she  given  him  her  love,  he  felt  that  to 
him  life  would  have  been  different;  but  that 
laughter  had  chilled  his  heart,  and  the  hope 
ful,  honest  love  had  gone  out  forever.  She 
had  married  and  he  had  loved  her  again,  but 
it  was  a  feeling  of  a  different  sort,  for  the 
man  who  speaks  of  love  to  a  married  woman 
casts  out  honesty  from  his  heart.  He  loved 
her  with  a  heated  longing  which  her  coldness 
fanned.  He  wanted  to  possess  her  for  his 
own,  yet  felt  that  he  was  balked  by  his  stu 
pidity  and  cowardice.  In  her  presence  he  was 
a  shrinking  child  with  the  yearning  of  a  man. 
"Helen,"  he  said,  after  a  moment,  "I  will  not 
be  played  with;  I  am  too  much  in  earnest." 

"You  frighten  me  by  your  seriousness,"  she 


202  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

said,  with  a  roguish  tone  in  her  voice.  "I  like 
you  better  when  you  are  angry.  It  suits  you." 

"I  will  not  be  trifled  with,  Helen,"  he  said; 
"you  have  no  right  to  treat  me  so." 

"I  have  the  right  of  a  billigerent,"  she 
laughed.  "You  declared  war,  you  remember." 

"Then  I  sue  for  peace." 

"And  I  grant  it,"  she  replied  softly,  put 
ting  out  her  hand.  "Come,  let  us  be  friends." 

Duncan  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his 
lips.  He  looked  up  into  her  tantalizing  eyes 
and  felt  again  the  warm  impulse  of  the  old 
love  burning  in  his  heart.  "I  cannot  be  your 
friend,  Helen,"  he  said  passionately,  "for  I 
love  you." 

She  drew  her  hand  away  quickly  and  pat 
ted  his  cheek  disapprovingly,  as  she  might 
have  patted  a  child's;  then  with  a  little,  play 
ful  laugh,  she  said:  "don't  be  silly,  you  know 
I  don't  like  it." 

Man  of  the  world  as  he  was,  without  scru 
ples  and  usually  reckless,  he  felt  cowed.  For 
a  moment  he  sat  moving  his  hands  nervously; 
then  he  looked  up  and  asked  in  a  serious  tone: 
"Why  didn't  you  marry  me?" 

"Because  I  liked  you  too  well." 


"/  WILL  LAUGH,  TOO"  203 

"That  is  no  answer." 

"Because  I  wanted  to  keep  your  love." 

"That  is  not  true." 

"Well,  because  marriage  is  a  business  part 
nership,  which,  to  be  successful,  requires  a 
person  of  experience  and  a  person  of  money. 
You  had  too  much  experience  and  I  had  no 
money,  le  voila" 

"You  are  a  heartless  flirt,"  Duncan  said, 
slowly  and  earnestly. 

"That's  what  a  man  always  says  of  a  wo 
man  when  he  fails  to  make  her  love  him." 

"You  are  a  heartless  flirt,  I  repeat,"  he 
answered.  "You  stole  the  best  love  in  my 
heart;  you  crushed  it  and  threw  it  aside  like 
a  flower  which  no  longer  pleased  you." 

"Nonsense,  Duncan,  such  poetic  similes  are 
ridiculous.  Better  say  that  love,  to  a  man, 
is  an  apple  of  Sodom,  fair  to  behold;  but 
when  he  has  it  in  his  grasp  it  crumbles  to 
sickening  ashes." 

"You  stole  my  love,  Helen;  a  man  never 
loves  but  once." 

"And  in  revenge,  to  use  your  metaphor,  you 
have  plucked  and  trampled  under  foot  every 
flower  within  your  reach.  I  know  you,  Dun- 


204  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

can.  It  is  only  because  I  was  stronger  than 
the  rest  that  I  still  bloom  fair  in  your  eyes." 

Duncan  looked  full  into  Helen's  face  with 
an  injured  expression  in  his  eyes.  "Helen," 
he  said  finally,  "  'tis  women  like  you  who 
make  us  men  distrust  your  sex;  who  make 
us  what  we  are." 

Helen  returned  his  glance,  and  replied 
scornfully:  "No;  it  is  men  like  you  who  drag 
us  down.  We  women  must  go  through  life 
armed,  like  travelers  of  old,  against  the  attacks 
of  you  highwaymen.  If  we  are  weak,  we  are 
robbed  of  our  best  possessions,  and  left  help 
less  by  the  way;  if  we  are  strong  and  ward 
off  your  attacks,  you  take  your  revenge  on 
those  who  fall  into  your  unscrupulous  hands. 
But  that  is  moralizing,  and  I  am  no  moralist; 
I  take  the  world  as  it  is." 

"Then  why  not  take  the  pleasure  in  it?" 
said  Duncan  insinuatingly. 

"Because  it  doesn't  amuse  me, "she  answered 
coldly.  "I  am  not  like  other  women,  I  sup 
pose;  at  least,  what  you  call  pleasure  disgusts 
me." 

"Then  why  have  you  let  me  be  your  friend 
so  long?". 


"/  WILL  LAUGH,  TOO."  205 

"Because  you  amuse  me,"  she  replied  care 
lessly.  "I  like  to  see  you  bluster  and  go 
away,  and  then  come  back  to  me.  Other 
women  pander  to  you,  but  I  don't;  other 
women  love  you,  but  I  don't." 

As  Duncan  listened  to  these  words,  a  blush 
of  anger  came  to  his  cheek.  He  thought  of 
how  strong  had  been  his  influence  over  other 
women,  and  how  weak  he  had  always  been  in 
Helen's  hands.  "After  all,  love  is  a  game  of 
strength,"  he  mused.  He  had  been  no  better 
than  a  ball  to  be  tossed  about  at  pleasure,  but 
he  would  throw  off  the  spell  of  this  woman, 
which  had  bound  him  so  fast — he  who  thought 
he  knew  the  world  so  well.  An  expression  of 
firmness  came  into  his  face,  and  he  said:  "I 
loved  you  once,  Helen,  but  I  hate  you  now." 

"I  am  glad,"  she  answered;  "now  there  is  a 
chance  that  your  passion  will  be  returned." 

Duncan  did  not  reply.  He  left  his  seat 
beside  her  and  walked  slowly  into  the  next 
room.  Helen's  eyes  followed  him.  "Silly 
boy,"  she  thought,  "I  hope  he  will  hate  me; 
I  might  love  him  then." 

Long  after  the  lights  in  the  smoking-room 
had  gone  out,  long  after  the  laughter  had 


206  WITH  EDGE  TOOLS. 

ceased,  Duncan  slowly  paced  his  room.  His 
hands  were  deep  in  his  pockets  and  he  held  a 
briar  pipe  between  his  lips.  Occasionally  he 
would  take  a  draw  at  the  pipe,  and  then  watch 
the  blue  smoke  curl  gently  upward  and  fade 
away  in  long,  thin  streaks;  but  all  the  time  he 
was  thinking  over  the  part  Helen  Osgood  had 
played  in  his  life.  "She  is  right,"  he  said, 
half  aloud;  "I  do  bluster  and  go  away,  and 
come  back  to  her,  and  I  will  do  it  again.  No, 
by  Jove !  I  won't.  A  man  can't  forget  that  he 
has  been  played  fast  and  loose  with,  and  I 
would  not  be  a  man  if  I  went  back  to  that 
woman.  I  hate  her.  I  hate  her,"  he  repeated. 
"She  might  have  made  a  different  man  of  me. 
I  was  young  and  might  have  taken  life  better, 
but  she  laughed  me  into  the  selfish  brute  I 
am.  O,  well,"  he  sighed,  as  he  thought  of 
his  past,  "I  suppose  I  am  no  worse  than  those 
around  me.  We  all  worry  over  what  might 
have  been,  but  we  don't  take  the  pleasure  that 
comes  to  us.  A  man's  an  ass  to  break  his 
neck  for  any  woman.  There  are  others  in  the 
world,  good  looking  ones,  too,  who  will  love 
for  the  asking."  He  returned  his  pipe  to 
its  case  and  closed  it  with  a  loud  snap.  "I 


"/  WILL  LAUGH,  TOO."  207 

have  been  in  the  garden  before,"  he  con 
tinued,  "and  I  will  go  there  again  and  pluck 
the  flowers  that  come  in  my  path.  I  will  hold 
them  for  a  minute;  then  I  will  crush  them  and 
cast  them  aside,  and  I  will  laugh,  too." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

UNDER  THE   WILLOWS. 

The  bell  of  the  Fairville  Presbyterian  Church 
was  slowly  tolling  the  hour  of  morning  service, 
and  its  tones,  clanging  out  through  the  bright 
green  shutters  of  the  belfry  on  the  peaceful 
Sabbath  air,  summoned  the  congregation  to 
worship.  The  sun  shone  brightly  upon  the 
little  white  church,  with  its  peaked  roof  and 
its  tall,  weather-vaned  steeple,  and  its  rays 
glanced  hotly  down  upon  the  dusty  roadway 
and  wooden  sidewalks  of  the  long,  village  street. 
Two  rows  of  white  frame  houses,  fronted  by 
little  green  patches,  each  enclosed  by  a  picket 
fence  and  a  swinging  gate,  extended  away  in 
the  distance.  Two  lines  of  stately  elms  cast 
their  shadows  partially  over  the  dusty  street, 
while  above  them  stretched  the  blue  vault  of 
the  June  sky. 

The  tolling  of  the  bell  was  the  only  sound 
that  disturbed  the  perfect  quiet  of  the  day, 
for  even  the  birds  seemed  to  have  ceased  their 


UNDER  THE   WILLOWS.  209 

chirping  in  deference  to  the  Sabbath.  Soon, 
however,  in  answer  to  the  call  to  prayer,  the 
little  picket  gates  swung  open,  and  far  down 
the  street  a  slender  line  of  people  began  to 
walk,  with  the  measured  tread  of  conscious 
righteousness,  toward  the  little  church  which 
gleamed  so  white  in  the  sunshine  at  the  end 
of  the  street.  The  board  walk  creaked  under 
the  squeaking  tread  of  Sunday  shoes,  and  sol 
emn  lips  spoke  in  subdued  Sunday  tones,  as 
elders  and  laity  slowly  wended  along  under  the 
shade  of  the  stately  elms.  White  lawn  dresses, 
leghorn  bonnets  and  blue  shawls,  folded  cross 
wise,  and  lisle-thread  gloves,  were  interspersed 
among  flopping  broadcloth  coats  and  straight 
brimmed  hats  in  the  throng  which  passed 
along  the  street  and  through  the  doors  of  the 
church.  Once,  just  after  the  last  tone  of  the 
bell  had  died  away,  the  stillness  was  broken 
by  the  rumble  of  wheels,  and  a  single  carriage 
rolled  through  the  dust  up  to  the  church  door. 
It  was  a  modest  equipage,  plain  in  its  appoint 
ments,  but  some  of  the  congregation  frowned 
disapprovingly  as  the  door  opened  and  Flor 
ence  Moreland  and  her  father  descended. 
Without  heeding  these  glances  of  disappro- 

14 


210  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

bation,  they  walked  quietly  into  the  church 
and  passed  down  the  long  aisle  to  the  family 
pew.  The  movement  of  numerous  fans  ceased 
and  many  heads  were  turned  to  see  the  Judge 
and  his  daughter  take  their  seats,  while  several 
pairs  of  young  and  envious  eyes  were  directed 
toward  the  last  production  of  a  city  milliner. 
After  the  fans  had  begun  to  move  again,  the 
cadaverous  minister  rose  from  his  seat  and 
in  harsh,  nasal  tones  announced  the  hymn. 
There  was  a  hemming  and  coughing  in  the 
choir's  gallery,  the  organ  bellows  wheezed, 
hymn-books  rustled,  and  then,  as  the  first 
strains  of  the  organ  sounded,  the  old  familiar 
lines  beginning,  "All  people  that  on  earth  do 
dwell,"  swelled  forth  in  zealous  tones. 

Just  as  the  last  notes  of  the  tune  floated 
away  and  the  congregation  were  taking  their 
seats,  a  man  stole  quietly  down  the  aisle  and 
entered  the  pew  behind  Florence  Moreland. 
His  well-made  clothes  attracted  curious  eyes, 
and  during  the  seemingly  interminable  prayer 
for  the  exorcism  of  every  evil  and  the  grant 
ing  of  all  known  blessings,  many  covert  glances 
were  sent  in  his  direction.  It  seemed  to  those 
who  looked,  that  during  the  prayer  and  the 


UNDER   THE    WILLOWS.  211 

long  didactic  discourse  upon  Solomon  and 
Sheba's  queen,  which  followed,  his  eyes  were 
kept  continuously  fixed  upon  the  back  of  a 
gold-braided  jacket  in  front  of  him.  The 
doctor's  daughter  next  him  glanced  over  his 
book  during  the  last  hymn  and  saw  that  it 
was  not  open  at  the  right  place,  while  the 
elder  who  passed  the  plate  looked  wonder- 
ingly  at  the  young  Croesus  who  placed  a 
greenback  among  the  coppers  and  silver;  but 
during  the  entire  service  his  eyes  were  not 
removed  from  the  form  in  front  of  him.  The 
last  roll  of  the  organ  died  away  and  the 
minister  pronounced  his  benedictory  prayer. 
During  the  conventional  moment  of  silence 
which  followed,  the  sun  streamed  through  the 
stained  glass  windows  and  danced  in  colored 
shadows  on  the  backs  of  the  white  lawn 
gowns;  then  the  frocks  rustled  as  the  congre 
gation  slowly  filed  out,  and  the  solemn,  Sun 
day  faces  were  relaxed  into  smiles  of  friendly 
greeting. 

Florence  Moreland  waited  until  most  of  the 
people  had  passed  out,  then  she  placed  her 
hand  upon  the  pew  door,  and  was  about  to 
open  it,  when  she  was  startled  by  the  sight  of 


212  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

a  familiar  face  behind  her.  "Harold,"  she  said, 
when  she  had  recovered  from  her  surprise. 
"What  brought  you  to  Fairville?" 

"I  came  as  the  bearer  of  a  message  for 
you,"  Harold  Wainwright  replied,  as  he  opened 
the  pew  door  for  her. 

"For  me  !  From  whom?"  asked  Florence  in 
astonishment. 

"If  I  may  walk  home  with  you  I  will  tell 
you;  otherwise  you  must  wait." 

"You  are  very  dictatorial,"  she  replied,  "but 
when  a  woman's  curiosity  is  aroused,  she  is 
easily  managed.  If  father  will  drive  home 
alone,  I  consent  to  your  terms.  Father,"  she 
continued,  turning  around  and  interrupting  a 
conversation  which  Judge  Moreland  was  hold 
ing  with  an  elder,  "  here  is  Harold  Wain 
wright." 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Harold,"  said  the  Judge, 
taking  Wainwright's  hand  and  giving  it  the 
hearty  shake  of  unaffected  cordiality.  "Glad 
to  see  the  son  of  the  best  friend  I  ever  had. 
You  must  bring  your  grip  up  to  the  ouse. 
What  brought  you  to  Fairville?" 

Harold  was  about  to  reply  to  these  numer 
ous  and  disconnected  remarks,  but  he  was  in- 


UNDER  THE   WILLOWS.  213 

terrupted  by  Florence.  "Harold  brings  news 
I  must  hear;  he  won't  tell  me  unless  I  promise 
to  let  him  walk  home  with  me.  Do  you 
mind,  father?" 

"Certainly  not.  I'll  take  Elder  Jones  home 
— if  I  can  persuade  him  to  ride  on  Sunday," 
the  Judge  added  in  a  whisper. 

"Very  well,  then.  Good-by,  father,"  said 
Florence,  moving  toward  the  door. 

"Good-by,  children.  It's  a  hot  day,  so  don't 
hurry.  If  you  want  to  stop  under  the  wil 
lows  to  rest,  I  sha'n't  mind,  and  I'll  wait  lunch 
for  you.  Don't  forget  to  move  up  to  the 
house,  Harold." 

"Thank  you,  Judge,"  said  Harold,  "but  as  I 
leave  in  the  morning,  I  don't  believe  I  had 
better  bother  you." 

"Nonsense,  my  boy,"  called  the  Judge.  "I'll 
send  down  for  your  traps  this  afternoon." 

When  Florence  and  Harold  reached  the 
street,  the  congregation  had  mostly  dispersed. 
Instead  of  following  the  villagers  along  under 
the  shady  elms  into  the  heart  of  the  village, 
they  turned  to  the  left,  and  tramped  in  the 
hot  sun  toward  the  shore  of  the  little  lake 
which  lay  at  the  end  of  the  town.  Judge 


214  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

Moreland's  place  was  on  the  opposite  bank, 
and  although  the  grey  tower  on  the  north 
wing  of  the  house,  rising  above  the  surround 
ing  oak  trees,  seemed  quite  near,  they  were 
obliged  to  follow  the  road  for  a  mile  and  a 
half  along  the  lake  shore.  About  Half  way 
was  a  clump  of  willow  trees  growing  by  the 
water,  under  whose  shade  they  had  often 
stopped  to  rest.  Florence  and  Harold  both 
loved  this  little  lake,  sunk  like  a  gem  amid 
the  rough  setting  of  the  mountain  crags,  and 
they  both  felt,  instinctively,  that  they  did  not 
care  to  talk  much  until  they  reached  their 
old  haunt  under  the  willows.  Even  Florence 
forgot  her  curiosity,  and  as  she  walked  beside 
Harold  over  the  road  they  had  so  often 
tramped  together,  she  seemed  to  forget  that  he 
had  been  away,  and  that  at  their  last  meeting 
in  distant  Chicago  so  much  that  was  unpleas 
ant  had  occurred.  Here  in  the  New  Hamp 
shire  mountains  all  seemed  so  different;  she 
felt  freed  from  the  tainted  atmosphere  of  the 
city  which  had  made  her  restless  and  uncertain 
in  mind.  Florence  had  not  forgotten  her  last 
words  with  Harold  in  Chicago;  indeed  she 
had  thought  of  them  over  and  over  again, 


UNDER  THE   WILLOWS.  215 

during  the  long  months  that  had  passed  since 
that  interview;  the  unpleasant  episode  at  the 
Renaissance  Club  was  also  seldom  absent  from 
her  mind;  but  to-day  it  all  seemed  to  have 
faded  quietly  from  her  heart.  Harold  had 
come  into  church  so  silently,  and  it  seemed 
so  natural  to  be  walking  by  his  side,  that  she 
was  carried  back  to  the  years  before  she 
went  to  Europe,  when,  still  a  child,  she  used 
to  romp  and  play  with  him  over  these  same 
New  Hampshire  hills. 

They  reached  the  willows,  and  Florence  sat 
down  on  the  green  turf  and  leaned  her  back 
against  a  tree.  She  took  off  her  hat  and  let 
the  breeze  cool  her  temples,  while  Harold, 
stretched  out  on  the  bank  beside  her,  lay  for 
a  while  resting  upon  his  elbow,  and  carelessly 
watching  the  pebbles,  he  threw  from  time  to 
time,  skip  lightly  from  ripple  to  ripple  and 
finally  sink  from  sight.  The  sunlight  danced 
on  the  gently  ruffled  surface  of  the  water; 
in  the  distance  the  bold  side  of  a  mountain 
rose  abruptly  above  the  lake,  its  rough  out 
lines  standing  out  sharply  in  relief  against 
the  clear  blue  of  the  sky;  and  the  little  white 
farmhouses,  perched  here  and  there  high  up 
on  its  slopes,  glistened  in  the  sunshine. 


216  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

They  sat  there  enjoying  the  scene,  until 
Florence  seemed  to  awaken,  as  from  a  pleasant 
dream,  and  feel  all  her  troubled  thoughts 
come  rudely  back  to  her.  She  remembered 
that  Harold  had  come  from  the  distant  city 
in  the  West  and  had  not  yet  told  her  the 
meaning  of  his  unexpected  visit.  "We  must 
not  dream  on  forever,  Harold,"  she  said,  as 
he  lazily  sent  another  pebble  skipping  from 
wave  to  wave;  "you  have  not  yet  told  me 
the  nature  of  the  message  you  have  brought." 

Harold  slightly  shifted  his  position  and,  rest 
ing  his  head  on  his  hand,  looked  up  into  her 
face  with  a  surprised  expression,  as  though  he, 
too,  had  forgotten  the  present  and  was  start 
led  at  being  called  back  to  it.  "I  brought  a 
command  for  you  to  return  to  Chicago,"  he 
said,  smiling. 

"A  command  from  whom  ?"  she  asked  in 
astonishment. 

"Here  it  is,"  he  answered,  reaching  into  his 
pocket  and  producing  a  letter  which  he  handed 
to  Florence. 

It  was  addressed  in  Marion  Sanderson's 
hand.  Florence  hastily  broke  the  seal  and 
read  as  follows: 


UNDER  THE  WILLOWS.  217 

"DEAREST  FLORENCE:— 

"  I  have  never  forgiven  you  for  your 
sudden  flight  last  winter,  and  the  offense  is 
of  such  long  standing  that  I  summon  you  to 
appear  in  Chicago  before  Derby  Day  to  an 
swer  a  charge  of  infidelity  to  me.  You  will 
be  imprisoned  here  for  at  least  one  month, — 
longer  if  possible, — and  I  charge  Mr.  Wain- 
wright  with  the  execution  of  this  warrant.  In 
other  words,  dearest  girl,  I  cannot  live  any 
longer  without  seeing  you,  and  must  have 
you  here  for  a  visit.  Pack  up  and  come  im 
mediately,  as  the  Derby  is  a  great  'function* 
here,  and  is  run  on  the  twenty-first  of  June. 
"With  a  world  of  love, 

"I  am,  your  devoted 

"MARION." 

"Did  you  come  all  the  way  from  Chicago 
to  bring  me  this  ?"  Florence  asked,  after  she 
had  finished  the  letter. 

Harold  was  sitting  up  now,  and  looking 
into  her  face  he  said  quietly:  "I  came  to  tell 
you  again  that  I  love  you." 

Florence  felt  a  sudden  emotion  thrill  her 
heart,  but  a  doubtful  expression  came  into 
her  eyes  as  she  glanced  down  and  said  slowly: 
"You  forget  what  happened  the  day  before 
I  left  Chicago." 


218  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

Harold  smiled.  He  took  her  hand  and  held 
it  firmly  between  his  own.  "I  remember  that 
you  are  the  bravest  girl  in  the  world,"  he 
said,  "and  that,  to  save  a  friend,  you  accused 
yourself." 

"You  don't  know  that,"  said  Florence  anx 
iously. 

"I  know  that  nothing  could  make  me  be 
lieve  you  did  wrong,  for  you  are  incapable 
of  it."  Then  he  added  earnestly:  "I  know, 
too,  that  I  love  you  better  than  my  life." 

Florence  looked  up  into  his  face  and  he 
must  have  read  her  answer  in  those  gentle, 
brown  eyes,  for,  without  waiting  for  her  to 
speak,  he  drew  her  to  his  side  and  kissed  her 
on  both  cheeks.  "I  love  you,  I  love  you," 
he  repeated,  as  he  held  her  tightly  in  his 
strong  arms;  "but  I  must  hear  love  spoken 
by  those  dear  lips." 

"I  love  you,  Harold,"  she  said,  and  the 
words  made  his  heart  leap  with  happiness. 

"Then  why  were  you  so  cruel  to  me  last 
winter?"  he  asked  reproachfully. 

"I  did  not  know  it  then,"  she  answered.  "It 
was  not  until  I  left  the  smoky  city  and  came 
away  into  the  free  country  air  that  I  knew 
I  cared  for  you,  Harold,  dear." 


UNDER  THE   WILLOWS.  219 

"I  wondered  you  cared  for  me  at  all,"  he 
replied  laughingly.  "We  had  been  friends  so 
long  that  it  was  strange  for  me  to  speak  of 
love." 

"Yes;  I  always  believed  that  love  was  some 
giant  who  crushes  one  by  his  mighty  power," 
she  said,  "and  I  found  he  was  a  little  rascal 
who  stole  into  my  heart  before  I  knew  he  was 
anywhere  about.  But,  O,  Harold,  I  am  so 
happy  now." 

She  rested  her  head  on  his  shoulder  and 
looked  up  into  his  face  again.  He  kissed  her, 
and,  as  he  did  so,  the  wind  caught  Marion 
Sanderson's  note  lying  in  her  lap,  and  car 
ried  it  out  onto  the  lake,  where,  resting  on 
the  water,  it  sailed  slowly  away  toward  the 
western  shore.  Harold  saw  it  and  asked  what 
message  it  bore  from  her  to  Marion. 

"I  had  forgotten  the  note,"  she  answered. 
"It  makes  me  think  of  that  woman  and  the 
danger  poor  Marion  was  in.  I  had  better  not 
go  to  Chicago,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's 
thought. 

"Why  not,  sweet  one?"  asked  Harold. 

"Because  of  that  woman.  She  would  say 
such  things  about  me." 


220  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

Harold  smiled.  "Don't  you  think  they 
would  have  been  said  long  ago,  if  she  had 
intended  saying  them?"  he  asked. 

"Perhaps  she  did  say  them,  though  I  have 
heard  nothing,  and  one  usually  hears  the  un 
pleasant  things  that  are  said  of  one." 

"I  know  you  have  heard  nothing,  dear," 
he  replied,  "and  I  know  you  never  will." 

"You  forget  what  I  admitted  to  her,  and 
you  don't  know  what  a  spiteful  woman  is 
capable  of." 

"I  know  Mrs.  McSeeney,"  he   said. 

"And  you  think  that  she  can  be  trusted? 
I  am  surprised  at  you,  Harold." 

"I  think  she  is  the  last  woman  in  the  world 
I  would  trust,"  he  replied. 

"Then  what  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

"Mrs.  McSeeney  and  I  are  old  acquaint 
ances.  I  think  I  can  answer  for  her." 

"You  speak  in  enigmas,  Harold,  and  you 
ought  not  to  keep  any  secrets  from  me, 
you  know." 

"I  don't  think  you  had  better  ask  to  know 
more,"  he  said  laughingly. 

"But  I  do,"  she  answered. 

"Then  I  obey.     Mrs.  McSeeney  and  I  were 


UNDER  THE   WILLOWS.  221 

at  Bar  Harbor  the  same  summer.  I  got  to 
know  her  very  well,  perhaps  better  than  she 
liked." 

"Well,  what  has  that  to  do  with  the  affair 
in  Chicago?"  Florence  asked  impatiently. 

"Nothing  much  except  that  Mrs.  McSeeney 
thinks  it  would  be  wise  never  to  mention  it." 

"Why?" 

"I  can't  tell  you.  It  is  a  secret  between 
Mrs.  McSeeney  and  myself." 

"Harold  Wainwright,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of 
authority  that  startled  him,  "I  forbid  you  to 
have  any  secrets  from  me." 

"Well,"  replied  Harold,  "if  you  command 
me  to  tell  more,  I  must  admit  that  Mrs.  Mc 
Seeney  and  I  had  a  confidential  talk  directly 
after  it  happened,  and  I  persuaded  her  that 
she  had  better  not  mention  the  matter  again." 

"You  persuaded  her?  How  ridiculous  !  You 
must  have  threatened  her  with  something. 
What  was  it?" 

"I  merely  asked  her  if  she  remembered  a 
certain  evening  at  Bar  Harbor  when  there 
was  a  fete  at  the  Canoe  Club." 

"Well,  what  of  it?  I  don't  see  anything 
unusual  in  that." 


222  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

"I  can't  tell  you  more;  only  when  I  re 
minded  her  of  that  evening  she  acknowledged 
that  it  would  be  discreet  for  her  to  remain 
silent  concerning  you  and  Marion  Sanderson. 
You  see  I  happened  accidentally  to  observe 
some  of  Mrs.  McSeeney's  actions  on  that  oc 
casion,  and,  considering  that  you  were  in  her 
power,  I  felt  justified  in  informing  her  of  the 
fact." 

"Then  it  was  you  who  saved  Marion  and 
me  from  her  spiteful  tongue,"  said  Florence 
in  a  relieved  tone.  "You  don't  know  how 
grateful  I  am,  and  how  I  have  worried  over 
that  matter." 

"You  need  worry  no  longer,  my  girl,"  re 
plied  Harold.  "But  I  must  tell  you  again 
how  plucky  you  were  to  try  to  save  your 
friend  in  the  way  you  did,  and  now  let's  for 
get  all  about  it." 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  Florence  fondly.  "We 
have  pleasanter  things  to  think  of." 

"'Tis  true,  my  darling,"  he  replied,  taking 
both  of  her  hands  in  his.  "To-day  you  have 
made  me  the  happiest  man  in  the  world. 
Do  you  know  why  I  love  you?" 

"No;  why?" 


UNDER  THE   WILLOWS,  223 

"Because  you  have  so  much  common  sense." 

Florence  smiled.  "I  never  showed  it  until 
I  began  to  love  you,"  she  replied;  "but  what 
time  do  you  suppose  it  is?  Just  think  of 
poor  papa  waiting  all  this  time." 

"Only  to  find  he  has  lost  his  best  posses 
sion,"  answered  Harold. 

Judge  Moreland  was  sitting  in  the  library 
when  they  reached  the  house,  and  although 
he  had  been  waiting  patiently  for  nearly  an 
hour  since  the  servant  had  announced  lunch 
eon,  he  did  not  seem  ill-humored,  for,  on  see 
ing  the  delinquents  enter,  he  smiled  good- 
humoredly,  and  shook  his  head  with  mock 
disapproval,  as  he  said:  "Three-quarters  of 
an  hour  late,  children.  That  is  more  than  I 
bargained  for,  but  you  will  be  punished.  The 
luncheon  is  cold  and  you  will  be  compelled 
to  eat  it  without  grumbling." 

Harold  took  Florence's  hand  and  they  both 
stood  before  the  Judge;  then  Harold  said  pen 
itently:  "The  fault  is  mine,  sir,  but  I  have  a 
greater  sin  to  answer  for.  I  have  robbed  you 
of  your  daughter,  and  I  come  to  ask  your 
clemency." 

"I  think  I  understand,"  answered  the  Judge. 


224  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

"Yours  is  a  very  grave  offense,  and  the  only 
way  you  can  obtain  pardon  is  by  seeking 
benefit  of  clergy.  Florence,  my  girl,  come 
here  and  let  me  kiss  you.  You  have  made 
me  very  happy." 

"Happy,"  echoed  Florence,  "I  feared  you 
would  never  forgive  me." 

"Not  forgive  you  for  loving  the  son  of 
Judge  Wainwright?  He  was  my  best  friend 
and  his  son  will  make  my  daughter  the  best 
husband  in  the  world.  Give  me  your  hand, 
Harold,"  he  continued,  after  he  had  kissed 
Florence  affectionately,  "you  are  your  father's 
own  boy." 

"That  is  the  best  compliment  you  could 
pay  me,"  answered  Harold. 

"I  know  it  is,  and  you  know  I  mean  it 
when  I  say  I  expect  to  see  you  on  the  fed 
eral  bench  yourself  some  day." 

"Luncheon  is  getting  cold,  sir,"  said  the  old 
family  butler,  coming  into  the  room  and  look 
ing  far  from  amiable. 

"Let  it  wait,  Thomas,"  said  the  Judge,  "until 
you  can  get  a  bottle  of  champagne  up  from 
the  cellar.  We  have  some  healths  to  drink 
to-day,  haven't  we,  children?" 


UNDER  THE   WILLOWS.  225 

That  evening  the  little  church  was  lighted 
up  for  evening  service,  and  again  the  rustling 
of  fans  ceased,  and  heads  were  turned  around 
as  Florence  and  Harold  took  their  seats.  But 
Harold's  eyes  were  no  longer  directed  toward 
the  pew  in  front  of  him,  and  the  doctor's 
daughter  remarked  that  the  two  people  in 
front  of  her  stood  unnecessarily  close  to  each 
other  during  the  hymns,  while  the  postmas 
ter's  wife  made  up  her  mind  that  people  who 
"smirk  and  look  so  silly  durin'  meetin'  must 
be  sparkin'."  In  fact  the  homely  folk  of  Fair- 
ville  were  not  slow  of  perception;  many  were 
the  gossiping  heads  put  together  that  night, 
and  it  was  a  curious  coincidence  that  there 
was  no  dissenting  voice  in  regard  to  the  proba 
bility  of  a  certain  event  having  taken  place 
that  afternoon. 

Going  home  that  night,  Florence  and  Har 
old  walked  with  the  tarrying  step  of  lovers, 
but  the  Judge  was  not  waiting  luncheon,  and, 
as  the  evening  was  warm  and  bright,  they 
rested  again  under  the  willows,  watching  the 
moonlight  play  on  the  ripples  of  the  lake. 
They  were  planning  for  the  future,  and  many 
were  the  rosy  tinted  castles  reared  in  that 

15 


226  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

soft  night  air  under  the  shade  of  the  trees 
they  loved  so  well.  The  moon  shone  kindly 
over  the  mountain  top  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  lake,  and  the  waves  plashed  softly  on  the 
pebbles  at  their  feet,  as  Florence  sat  there 
with  her  head  resting  on  Harold's  shoulder, 
dreaming  the  sweetest  dream  of  life. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

UNREST. 

The  sun  was  streaming  through  the  San 
derson's  library  window,  and  the  curtains 
were  fluttering  in  the  soft  lake  breeze  which 
blew  through  the  open  casement.  Across  the 
driveway  a  policeman  was  chatting  with  a 
trim  nursery  maid,  and  two  or  three  loungers 
were  leaning  over  the  sea  wall,  watching  the 
blue  water  splash  lazily  against  the  grey 
stones.  The  white  sails  of  the  lake  craft  in 
the  offing  glistened  in  the  sunshine,  and  the 
smoke  from  the  steamers  settled  along  the 
horizon  in  long  black  streaks,  while  the  pass 
ing  of  an  occasional  vehicle  along  the  drive 
way  produced  a  little  cloud  of  dust,  which 
for  a  moment  obscured  the  view,  and  then 
was  carried  away  by  the  summer  breeze  and 
scattered  along  the  roadway.  The  atmos 
phere  had  the  hazy  hue  peculiar  to  one  of 
those  first  warm  days  of  early  summer,  when 
the  air  seems  charged  with  lassitude,  and  one 

227 


228  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

is  overpowered  with  a  depressing  sense  of 
ennui,  which  precludes  the  possibility  of  any 
sort  of  action. 

Marion  Sanderson  and  Florence  Moreland 
were  there  in  the  library,  trying  to  keep  cool 
and  talking  over  the  events  of  the  past  six 
months.  Marion  was  stretched  on  a  lounge 
with  an  Eau-de-Cologne  bandage  bound  about 
her  forehead  to  relieve  the  migraine  from 
which  she  was  suffering,  and  Florence  sat 
beside  her,  plying  a  palm-leaf  fan  and  trying 
to  amuse  her  friend  by  accounts  of  the  small 
doings  of  her  life  in  New  Hampshire. 

"So  you  think  I  must  have  had  a  stupid 
winter,"  said  Florence,  in  answer  to  Marion's 
last  remark. 

"I  am  sure  of  it.  You  had  much  better 
have  remained  here  with  me." 

"You  are  very  inconsistent,"  laughed  Flor 
ence.  "Last  minute  you  said  Chicago  was 
the  dullest  place  you  knew  anything  about." 

"I  meant  dull  in  comparison  with  London 
or  New  York.  It  is  certainly  better  than  a 
place  where  life  is  made  up  of  prayer  meet 
ings  and  snow  banks." 

"I   am   glad   you    are  beginning   to   appre- 


UNREST.  229 

ciate  the  advantages  of  your  home,"  said 
Florence. 

"Don't  chaff  me,  Florence.  I  can't  bear  it. 
I  am  too  nervous.  I  wish  you  had  this 
headache  for  five  minutes  and  perhaps  you 
would  feel  sorrier  for  me." 

"Why,  my  dear,  I  do  feel  sorry  for  you; 
isn't  there  anything  I  can  do?" 

"No;  Dr.  Maccanfrae  is  coming  this  morn 
ing  and  I  suppose  he  will  give  me  a  lot  of 
stuff,  but  it  won't  do  me  any  good.  I  have 
taken  every  known  medicine  this  winter,  and 
I  have  had  this  headache  every  day  for 
months.  I  can't  eat  anything.  I  can't  sleep, 
and  I  am  tired  and  bored  all  the  time.  The 
Doctor  calls  it  neurasthenia,  but  I  don't  know 
what  good  it  does  to  put  such  a  big  name 
to  it,  when,  he  can't  do  me  any  good." 

"There  must  be  something  that  will  help 
you,"  said  Florence. 

"Of  course  there  is.  If  I  could  go  some 
where  else  to  live  I  know  I  should  feel 
better.  What  I  need  is  some  new  distrac 
tion,  but  how  can  I  have  that  in  this  stupid 
town?"  Then  she  was  silent  for  awhile 
and  during  that  time  she  thought  of  the 


230  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

few  days  last  winter  when  a  new  element 
had  come  into  her  life  only  to  vanish  as 
quickly  again.  She  thought  of  a  ball-room, 
an  exciting  dance,  and  the  magnetic  impulse 
of  a  moment  which  had  made  life  seem  so 
sweet.  Why  had  she  resisted  that  tempta 
tion,  she  asked  herself.  The  other  course 
could  not  have  made  her  more  unhappy,  and 
it,  at  least,  was  no  more  a  mockery  than 
her  present  life,  with  that  love  still  burning 
fiercely  to  the  wild  accompaniment  of  Tzi- 
gan  strains,  echoing  in  her  heart.  "What  is 
the  use  of  being  good?"  she  asked  herself. 
Then  she  smiled  a  mocking  answer,  turned 
over  on  the  lounge  and  buried  her  face  in 
the  cushions. 

Florence  watched  Marion  anxiously  for  a 
moment.  She  was  extremely  worried  about 
the  state  of  nervous  depression  in  which  she 
had  found  her  friend  on  returning  to  Chicago, 
and  she  was  trying  to  think  of  some  way  in 
which  she  could  help  her.  She  leaned  over 
her  and  slowly  stroked  her  rich  black  hair. 
Marion  looked  up  and  smiled  faintly.  Then 
she  seized  Florence's  hand  and  began  to  sob 
nervously.  "You  love  me,  don't  you  Flor- 


UNREST.  231 

ence;  you  love  me,  don't  you?"  she  said 
between  the  sobs. 

"You  don't  need  to  ask  that,  Marion." 

"I  know  it,"  she  replied;  "I  think  you  are 
the  only  person  in  the  world  who  under 
stands  me,  the  only  person  who  loves  me." 

"You  are  wrong  in  that,  my  dear,  I  am 
sure." 

"No,  I  am  not,"  she  moaned.  "  I  want 
love,  I  must  have  love.  O,  I  can't  live  with 
out  it!" 

Florence  stroked  Marion's  head  again,  and 
tried  to  soothe  her  hysterical  sobbing. 
"Dear,"  she  said  softly,"  there  is  one  man 
who  would  die  for  you  if  it  would  bring 
you  happiness.  I  am  sure  of  it." 

Marion  turned  her  head  away  and  did  not 
reply.  Florence  felt  pity  for  her  friend's 
unhappy  state  of  mind,  which  she  considered 
was,  in  a  great  measure,  self-produced,  but 
she  knew  it  was  useless  to  talk  to  Marion 
about  her  husband,  as  she  was  a  woman  who 
could  not  be  influenced  by  persuasive  words. 
Florence  wanted  to  help  her  friend  to  under 
stand  the  danger  she  was  in,  but  she  could 
not  see  a  way  which  promised  success;  so, 


232  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

thinking  that  the  best  course  was  to  divert 
her  mind  from  herself;  she  took  Marion's 
hand  and  said  cheerfully,  "I  have  a  secret  to 
tell  you,  dear,  but  you  must  sit  up  and  look 
pleased." 

"I  hope  it  is  interesting/'  said  Marion  some 
what  mournfully.  "I  haven't  heard  a  secret 
for  months." 

"Guess  what  it  is." 

"Is  it  an  engagement?" 

"Yes." 

"Whose  ?" 

"Guess."     • 

"I  can't.  You  must  tell  me  immediately. 
I  am  dying  to  know,"  answered  Marion, 
brightening  considerably. 

"It  is  mine." 

"You  horrid  creature,"  said  Marion,  sitting 
up  and  hurling  one  of  the  sofa  cushions  at 
Florence. 

"That  is  a  novel  way  to  treat  a  friend  at 
such  a  time,"  Florence  said  as  she  dodged 
the  pillow. 

"You  are  an  awful  girl  not  to  tell  me  be 
fore.  How  could  you  be  in  the  house  since 
yesterday  and  not  say  anything?  I  suppose 


UNREST.  233 

Harold  Wainwright  is  the  man,  but  I  don't 
much  care  who  he  is.  You  are  a  provoking 
creature,"  and  she  emphasized  her  remarks 
by  throwing  another  cushion  which  hit  wide 
of  the  mark,  and  sent  some  books  spinning 
off  the  library  table  onto  the  floor. 

Marion  was  over  her  depression  now,  and, 
jumping  up,  she  threw  her  arms  about  Florence 
and  kissed  her,  saying:  "Sit  down,  dear,  and 
tell  me  all  about  it.  When  did  it  happen? 
When  is  it  going  to  be  announced?  When 
are  you  going  to  be  married  ?  I  always  felt 
you  would  marry  him.  Who  are  you  going 
to  have  for  bridesmaids?" 

Florence  laughed  at  Marion's  multitude  of 
questions.  "You  dear  girl,"  she  said,  kissing 
her,  "I  am  glad  I  made  you  smile  again;  but 
I  can  answer  only  one  of  those  questions. 
It  happened  last  Sunday  at  Fairville." 

"And  you  didn't  tell  me  until  now!  O,  I 
will  pay  you  up  for  this.  But  come,  let's 
talk  it  all  over  and  decide  about  the  wedding 
and  the  bridesmaids." 

A  servant  entered  the  room  and  announced 
"Dr.  Maccanfrae."  Marion  and  Florence  hur 
riedly  assumed  different  positions  and  ad- 


234  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

justed  their  ruffled  hair.  Then  the  kind  face 
of  the  philanthropic  physician  appeared  in 
the  doorway. 

"How  do  I  find  my  patient  this  morning?" 
said  the  Doctor,  coming  toward  the  window 
where  they  were  seated. 

"Better,  I  hope,"  said  Florence,  turning 
round. 

"Miss  Moreland !"  exclaimed  the  Doctor  in 
astonishment.  "I  thought  you  were  some 
where  in  the  White  Mountains." 

"No;  I  came  back  yesterday,"  she  contin 
ued  as  he  shook  her  hand.  "I  thought  you 
needed  a  nurse  for  your  patient." 

"Nurse  and  remedy  combined,  for  you  are 
the  best  cure  I  could  prescribe  for  Mrs.  San 
derson." 

"You  are  very  flattering,  Doctor.  Under 
your  advice  I  shall  try  to  do  my  best,  but, 
if  you  will  excuse  me,  I  shall  run  away  and  do 
some  unpacking."  Saying  this,  Florence  left 
her  seat,  and,  bidding  the  Doctor  good-by, 
walked  toward  the  door.  As  she  was  leaving 
the  room  she  called  to  him,  asking  when  he 
would  give  her  another  lecture  on  pantheism. 

"I    fear  if    I  do    I  shall   have  to  suffer    for 


UNREST.  235 

the  sin  of  corrupting  the  heart  of  a  Puritan/' 
said  the  Doctor. 

"A  Puritan  is  always  fortified  against  Sa 
tan's  wiles,"  she  answered  laughingly,  as  she 
stopped  in  the  doorway,"  and,  besides,  my 
grandfathers,  for  six  generations,  were  minis 
ters." 

"A  case  of  the  transmission  of  the  original 
sin,  I  suppose,"  answered  the  Doctor,  as  she 
retired  through  the  door.  "And  how  is  my 
patient  to-day?"  he  repeated,  as  Florence's 
laughter  died  away  and  her  steps  were  heard 
hurrying  up  the  stairs. 

"I  don't  think  I  am  a  bit  better,"  said 
Marion  somewhat  mournfully,  having  relapsed 
into  her  former  state  in  the  presence  of  the 
Doctor.  After  adjusting  the  cloth  on  her 
aching  head,  she  continued:  "I  have  no  ani 
mation  or  ambition;  I  have  these  frightful 
nervous  pains  and  headaches;  my  appetite 
is  all  gone;  nothing  seems  to  amuse  me  any 
more,  and  I  lie  here  all  day  long  feeling 
utterly  wretched.  In  the  evening  I  manage 
to  develop  animation  enough  to  take  me 
out,  and,  for  a  while,  I  forget  myself,  but 
when  it  is  over  I  feel  worse  than  ever.  Oh, 
Doctor,  what  is  the  matter  with  me?" 


236  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

Dr.  Maccanfrae  looked  at  Marion  a  mo 
ment  as  though  hesitating  to  answer  her 
question,  then,  feeling  her  pulse,  he  replied: 
"Mrs.  Sanderson,  there  is  nothing  the  matter 
with  you." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Doctor?"  said  Ma 
rion  somewhat  angrily.  "Do  you  suppose  I 
don't  know  how  I  feel?" 

"When  I  say  there  is  nothing  the  matter 
with  you,  I  mean  you  have  no  organic  dis 
ease.  You  are  simply  suffering  from  the 
fashionable  complaint  of  nervous  depression, 
or  neurasthenia,  as  we  physicians  call  it.  Al 
most  every  woman  in  your  station  in  life 
has  it  sooner  or  later.  It  is  nothing  but  a 
symptom,  but  it  may  grow  into  a  great 
many  worse  things." 

"Well,  why  don't  you  cure  me  then,  if  it 
is  nothing?"  remarked  Marion  in  a  provoked 
manner." 

The  Doctor  looked  at  her  a  moment;  then 
he  asked  slowly,  but  with  an  emphasis  which 
seemed  to  carry  a  hidden  meaning:  "Do  you 
want  to  get  well,  Mrs.  Sanderson?" 

Marion  looked  up  somewhat  startled.  "Why 
do  you  ask  such  a  question?"  she  replied. 


UNREST.  237 

"Because  you  produced  the  disease  your 
self,  and  you  alone  can  cure  it." 

"You  are  positively  rude,  Doctor. 

"I  know  I  should  ask  pardon  for  my 
brusqueness,  but  I  am  your  physician,  and  I 
desire  to  see  you  well  again.  The  only  way 
that  can  be  accomplished  is  for  you  to  take 
the  case  in  your  own  hands." 

"I  don't  understand,  Doctor." 

"I  take  a  sincere  interest  in  you  and  your 
husband.  If  you  will  let  me  talk  to  you  as 
a  friend,  and  will  take  my  advice,  I  hope  I 
may  do  you  much  good;  but  if  I  am  to  re 
main  the  physician  and  must  confine  myself 
to  writing  prescriptions  for  worthless  drugs, 
I  fear  the  improvement  will  be  slow." 

"Go  on,  Doctor.  I  promise  to  listen,"  said 
Marion,  prompted  more  by  a  curiosity  to  hear 
his  advice  than  by  a  resolution  to  follow  it. 

"I  may  say  some  very  plain  things.  Will 
you  promise  to  take  them  in  the  friendly  way 
in  which  they  are  meant?" 

"Go  on,  Doctor.  I  shall  not  get  angry,  I 
promise  you." 

The  Doctor  leaned  forward  and  said,  in  a 
more  sympathetic  manner:  "Mrs.  Sanderson, 


238  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS, 

every  physician  whose  patients  are  drawn 
from  the  classes  we  call  society  has  to  deal 
with  scores  of  cases  precisely  like  yours.  One 
of  us  will  administer  bromides;  another  will 
feed  his  patients  on  extract  of  beef;  another 
will  use  electricity;  another  will  recommend 
massage,  and  so  on.  But  all  these  remedies 
are  fruitless  except  in  so  far  as  they  assist 
the  sufferer  to  believe  that  she  is  improving, 
or  afford  some  temporary  relief.  The  disease, 
if  so  I  may  term  a  depressed  state  of  the 
nervous  system,  is  caused  by  the  habits  of 
the  patient,  and  can  only  be  cured  by  chang 
ing  those  habits." 

"I  am  not  dissipated,"  said  Marion  some 
what  resentfully. 

"I  did  not  say  that,  Mrs.  Sanderson,  but  if 
you  desire  to  get  well  you  must  completely 
change  your  mode  of  life." 

"What  must  I  do?" 

"I  fear  you  will  only  laugh  when  I  tell  you, 
and  call  me  a  silly  old  fool." 

"No,  I  sha'n't;  I  promise." 

"You  must  go  to  bed  before  eleven  every 
night.  You  must  be  up  by  half-past  seven. 
You  must  walk  or  ride  every  morning,  drink 


UNREST.  239 

no  wine,  tea,  or  coffee,  eat  plain  food,  and 
read  no  novels.  You  must  develop  an  inter 
est  in  your  household  affairs,  get  a  wholesome 
occupation  for  every  hour  of  the  day,  and 
take  no  more  medicine.  When  you  feel  a 
headache  go  into  the  fresh  air;  when  you 
feel  depressed,  throw  the  mood  off  by  finding 
some  work  to  do." 

"But,  Doctor,  I  had  almost  sooner  die  than 
do  all  that.  I  could  never  live  in  such  a  rou 
tine  of  the  commonplace." 

"I  know  that  is  very  hard,  but  perhaps  it 
is  not  all,"  said  the  Doctor.  "You  have  no 
children,  Mrs.  Sanderson." 

"No,  thank  heaven.  I  am  worried  enough 
without  that." 

"Unfortunately  we  are  confronted  in  this 
world  with  a  certain  amount  of  worry.  I 
think  experience  proves  that  it  is  better  to 
accept  the  worries  nature  intended  than  to 
create  worse  ones  by  trying  to  circumvent  her. 
However,  I  see  you  weary  of  my  preaching. 
Think  it  over  until  Monday,  and  then  I  shall 
give  you  some  more  advice  provided  you 
think  your  nerves  can  bear  it." 

"You  are  just  as  bad  as  Dr.  Thompson." 


240  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

"Only  I  have  no  choir  boys  and  spring  bon 
nets  to  attract  an  audience,"  replied  the  Doc 
tor,  rising  to  leave.  Then  he  continued  in  a 
different  tone:  "I  trust  you  will  pardon  what 
I  have  said,  and  even  if  you  don't  follow  my 
disagreeable  regime,  I  want  you  to  feel  that 
I  gave  you  the  best  advice  that  I  could." 

The  Doctor  bade  her  good-by,  and  when 
he  was  gone  she  buried  her  face  in  the  pil 
lows  and  thought  over  what  he  had  said. 
"I  never  could  do  all  that,"  she  thought;  "be 
sides,  he  is  a  perfect  crank  on  fresh  air  and 
diet.  If  I  thought  Roswell  would  let  me,  I 
would  go  to  someone  else.  I  think  he  is  too 
old  to  be  up  with  the  times,  and  Mrs.  Smythe 
says  Dr.  Wimbleton  is  a  perfect  dear  and 
helped  her  from  the  first  day  she  went  to  him. 
O,  my  poor  head,  how  it  does  ache!"  she 
called  out,  half  expecting  sympathy  from  the 
oak  book-shelves  and  the  bric-a-brac;  then 
she  turned  over  nervously  and  continued  her 
restless  thinking.  "I  wish  I  were  dead,"  she 
moaned.  "So  little  comes  into  my  life  that 
living  it  is  scarcely  worth  the  trouble.  If 
there  were  only  someone  to  bring  me  sym 
pathy.  If  I  could  only  forget  those  days 


UNREST.  241 

when,  for  a  few  moments,  I  felt  as  other 
women  feel." 

Florence  came  into  the  room  again  and 
Marion,  hearing  her  step,  looked  up.  "Is  it 
you  ?"  she  said. 

"Yes, "answered  Florence;  "I  heard  the  Doc 
tor  go  out  so  I  thought  I  would  come  back. 
What  did  he  say?" 

"O,  a  lot  of  nonsense  which  I  really  did 
not  listen  to.  He  ought  to  do  more  to  cure 
me  and  talk  less.  In  fact,  I  think  his  per 
sonality  exasperates  me,  and  I  am  afraid  I 
shall  have  to  change  physicians  if  I  want  to 
get  any  better." 

"Poor  Dr.  Maccanfrae,"  said  Florence!  "He 
is  the  dearest,  kindest,  best  intentioned  man 
in  the  world.  Think  of  the  good  he  does 
among  the  poor." 

"O,  I  know  all  about  that,  but  that's  no 
reason  why  he  should  lecture  me  like  a  child 
about  going  to  bed  early  and  taking  exer 
cise." 

"Perhaps  he  believes  more  in  such  medicine 
than  in  drugs.  Don't  you  think  yourself 
that  it  is  some  such  regime  that  you  need?" 

"Don't  you  begin  to  lecture  me,  too,"  said 

16 


242  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

Marion,  with  a  sigh.  "Life  is  hard  enough 
without  your  making  it  worse." 

"I  shall  not  lecture  you,  I  promise,  but," 
she  continued,  taking  Marion's  hands  and 
pulling  her  up  from  the  lounge,  "as  your 
nurse,  I  must  see  that  you  have  a  change. 
Come,  tell  me  what  are  the  plans  for  to-day." 

"Why,  there's  the  luncheon  at  Mrs.  Ryder's." 

"Good,  and  what  else?" 

"Why,  we  dine  at  the  Beemers'  to-night." 

""And  to-morrow?" 

"We  go  to  the  races  on  Walter  Sedger's 
drag,  and  dine  at  the  Washington  Park  Club." 

"Is  your  husband  going?" 

"Of   course." 

"How  does  he  leave  his  business?" 

"I  make  him." 

"Very  well,  then  this  morning  before 
luncheon  we  take  a  walk  as  far  as  Lincoln 
Park." 

"I  can't  walk  that    far,  Florence." 

"You  are  going  to  walk  that  far,"  said  Flor 
ence,  authoritatively.  "I  am  your  nurse,  and 
I  insist  upon  it." 

"But   I   shall  be  ill  all   day." 

"Never    mind,    you    will  get    over    it   this 


UNREST.  243 

afternoon  when  we  read  some  Thackeray, 
and  to-morrow  morning  you  and  I  will  do 
the  marketing." 

"You  are  crazy,  Florence,  I  do  believe." 

"I  never  was  more  sane  in  my  life.  Come, 
I  am  in  earnest.  You  would  have  me  here, 
you  know,  and  I  shall  make  myself  so  dis 
agreeable  that  you  will  be  thankful  when  I 
am  gone." 

"O,  Florence,  how  can  you  be  so  rough?" 
said  Marion,  as  Florence  dragged  her  toward 
the  door. 

"There,  now,"  said  Florence,  after  they  had 
passed  into  the  hall,  "go  and  put  on  your 
hat.  I  brought  mine  with  me." 

"Just  think  of  the  heat,  Florence,"  said 
Marion  as  she  disappeared  up  the  stairs. 

In  a  few  minutes  Marion  returned  look 
ing  brighter  already,  Florence  thought,  and 
the  two  women  were  soon  strolling  along  the 
lake  shore  talking  over  the  countless  trivial 
ities  women  find  to  talk  about,  and  at  tea- 
time,  after  a  day  of  Florence's  nursing,  Marion 
was  forced  to  admit  that  she  had  passed  an 
unusually  cheerful  day.  Roswell  Sanderson 
came  in  just  as  they  were  finishing  tea,  and 


244  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

after  taking  a  seat  and  declining  a  cup  of  the 
beverage,  he  said  in  a  careless  manner:  "By 
the  way,  Marion,  an  old  friend  of  yours  came 
into  the  bank  just  before  I  left." 

"Who?"  asked  Marion. 

"That  New  Yorker,  Duncan  Grahame." 

Marion  felt  a  sudden  sinking  in  her  heart 
and  was  conscious  that  the  color  was  fading 
from  her  cheeks,  but  she  took  a  large  swallow 
of  tea  and  tried  to  look  unconcerned.  Flor 
ence  watched  Roswell's  face  closely  and  saw 
the  same  expression  come  into  his  eyes  which 
she  had  noticed  that  afternoon  at  the  Renais 
sance  Club  tea. 

"When  did  he  come?"  asked  Marion,  after 
a  moment. 

"This  morning  on  the  'Limited'.  He  has 
been  in  England  all  winter.  You  will  see  him 
to-morrow,  as  he  told  me  Sedger  had  asked 
him  on  his  coach." 

"What  fate  has  brought  him  back  again?" 
thought  Marion. 

Roswell  Sanderson  was  silent  for  a  moment, 
then  he  came  toward  his  wife.  Taking  a  seat 
beside  her,  he  asked  tenderly  if  she  remem 
bered  what  day  it  was;  then  he  took  a  pack- 


UNREST.  245 

age  from  his  pocket  which  he  dropped  into 
her  lap. 

"Why,  it's  the  anniversary  of  our  wedding. 
I  had  quite  forgotten  it." 

Florence  had  left  the  room  a  moment  be 
fore,  so  that  they  were  alone.  Marion  untied 
the  parcel  in  her  lap,  and  found  that  it  was 
a  case  containing  a  string  of  pearls.  She 
looked  up  into  her  husband's  face  and  kissed 
him,  and  a  feeling  of  shame  came  into  her 
heart.  She  saw  a  love  in  his  eyes  which  she 
could  not  return,  and  she  prayed  that  he 
might  find  the  means  to  make  her  love  him. 
This  thought  was  in  her  heart  only  for  a 
moment,  then  she  was  playing  with  the  pearls, 
and  wondering  again  why  Duncan  had  come 
back  into  her  life. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

DERBY   DAY. 

A  small  crowd  was  collected  in  front  of 
the  Hotel  Mazarin,  and  its  proportions  were 
gradually  being  swelled  by  passing  Saturday 
loungers.  Walter  Sedger's  drag,  drawn  up 
in  front  of  the  hotel  to  receive  his  party  for 
the  races,  was  the  attraction  which  drew  to 
gether  this  inquisitive  throng,  and  in  spite 
of  the  expression  of  superior  indifference 
assumed  by  most  of  the  men  and  boys  com 
posing  the  crowd,  it  was  easy  to  see  that 
the  red-wheeled  coach,  with  its  smart  team 
of  browns,  was  an  object  of  more  than  pass 
ing  interest.  A  park  policeman  was  exchang 
ing  a  word  or  two  in  a  knowing  manner 
with  the  stolid  Briton  in  boots  and  breeches 
at  the  leaders'  heads,  and  near  him  a  slouch- 
hatted  veteran,  wearing  a  Grand  Army  badge, 
was  talking  condescendingly  with  an  ice-man. 
A  large  cake  of  ice,  which  had  been  carried 
thus  far  on  its  way  to  the  hotel  bar,  was 

246 


DERB  Y  DA  F.  247 

slowly  melting  in  the  sun,  and  little  streams 
of  water  flowed  from  it  and  trickled  into  the 
gutter;  but  the  veteran  and  the  ice-man  still 
gazed  at  the  shining  panels  of  the  drag,  and 
eyed  the  "cattle"  with  the  air  of  connoisseurs, 
while  a  butcher's  boy  with  his  white  apron 
and  basket  of  meat,  and  a  German  carpenter 
with  his  kit  of  tools,  stood  there  stolidly, 
intent  upon  remaining  until  the  show  was 
over.  A  diminutive  Italian  boot-black,  still 
attired  in  the  rags  of  his  native  Naples,  had 
crowded  to  the  curb  and  was  standing  in 
front  of  two  Norwegian  sailors;  just  behind 
them  was  a  party  of  Bohemian  laborers,  and 
a  peddler  from  sunny  Sicily  touched  elbows 
with  a  mortar-covered  mason  from  Erin's 
shores,  while  some  cadaverous  clerks  from  the 
State  Street  shops,  radiant  in  the  ready-made 
attire  of  assumed  gentility,  were  there,  help 
ing  to  swell  this  crowd  of  perhaps  a  hundred 
loungers.  They  were  all  citizen  of  the  great 
Republic,  and  though  few  could  speak  intel 
ligently  the  language  of  their  adopted  home, 
probably  most  of  them,  in  their  hearts,  re 
sented  the  appearance  on  the  Chicago  streets 
of  this  English  coach  as  something  un- 


248  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

American,  for  which  "them  doods"  on  the 
Avenue  were  responsible. 

The  hands  of  the  hotel  clock  indicated 
that  the  hour  was  nearing  two.  The  thin- 
faced  veteran  in  the  slouch  hat  plunged  his 
hands  deeper  into  his  trousers'  pockets,  and, 
turning  his  head  to  a  critical  angle,  said 
patronizingly  to  the  ice-man:  "Them's  the 
things  they  calls  'tally-ho's.'"  The  ice-man 
rolled  his  shirt-sleeves  a  little  higher  above  his 
elbows,  folded  his  brawny  arms  and  replied, 
in  the  accent  of  the-  Teuton,  "I  dink  dot 
vas  it." 

"Them  swells  likes  to  show  off  mighty  well. 
Wonder  what  that  machine  cost,"  answered 
the  veteran.  But  before  the  ice-man  could 
reply,  a  messenger  boy  at  his  side  shouted 
out,  "Golly!  there  goes  another  of  them 
'busses,"  and  the  attention  of  the  crowd  was 
attracted  toward  the  street,  where  Jack  El 
liot's  coach,  with  its  team  of  roans,  was  pass 
ing  along  the  Avenue,  bearing  a  party  to  the 
races. 

"I  wish  that  chap  in  the  white  pants'd 
toot  his  horn,"  said  the  messenger  boy;  but 
Jack  Elliot  was  a  coaching  man  who  did  not 


DERB  Y  DA  Y.  249 

believe  in  arousing  the  neighborhood  with 
useless  music,  so  the  wish  was  not  gratified. 

While  the  attention  of  the  crowd  was  thus 
diverted,  Sedger  and  his  friends  emerged 
from  the  hotel.  The  party  was  composed  of 
Marion  and  her  husband,  Florence  Moreland, 
Harold  Wainwright,  a  Mrs.  Smith  from  Cin 
cinnati,  and  Walter  Sedger.  They  had  been 
lunching  in  the  restaurant  of  the  hotel,  and 
on  reaching  the  sidewalk  they  at  first  found 
some  difficulty  in  pushing  their  way  toward 
the  coach;  but  on  seeing  them  the  smart 
park  policeman  on  duty  officiously  pushed 
the  crowd  back  and  made  a  way  for  them. 

"I  can't  wait  for  Grahame  any  longer," 
Sedger  was  saying  to  Mrs.  Sanderson.  "He 
couldn't  lunch  with  us,  and  I  told  him  to  be 
here  at  half-past  one.  It's  a  quarter  to  two, 
and  we  shall  miss  the  first  race." 

"Don't  wait  for  him,  then,"  said  Marion, 
thinking  this  was  the  only  thing  to  be  said, 
but  feeling  an  inward  disappointment  at  the 
thought  that  Duncan  might  not  see  her  in 
her  white  crepon  gown,  with  its  gold  corselet 
and  braided  trimmings,  just  sent  her  by  Mrs. 
Mason  of  Burlington  Street,  London,  W. 


250  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

She  knew  it  was  becoming,  and  she  also 
liked  her  Virot  hat,  but  she  didn't  think  it 
wise  to  put  Sedger  in  an  ill-humor  by  ask 
ing  him  to  wait,  so  she  walked  silently  to 
where  a  groom  was  holding  a  ladder  against 
the  box-seat.  Meanwhile  Sedger  passed  round 
to  his  off  side  wheeler  and  picked  up  his 
reins.  Assorting  them  in  correct  road  fashion 
he  mounted  to  his  seat,  wrapped  a  light  driv 
ing  apron  about'  his  legs,  picked  up  his  whip, 
caught  the  lash  in  a  double  thong,  and  waited 
while  his  party  took  their  places.  Marion 
mounted  to  the  box  seat  and  the  rest  took 
the  longer  seat  behind.  Just  as  Sedger  was 
about  to  start  his  team,  Marion,  who  had 
been  constantly  looking  in  the  direction  in 
which  Duncan  should  appear,  saw  him  has 
tening  around  the  corner  of  Jackson  Street. 
"There  is  Mr.  Grahame,"  she  called  out,  and 
while  Duncan  was  hurrying  along  the  street, 
Roswell  Sanderson  suggested  that  he  and 
Wainwright  had  better  change  to  the  back 
seat,  so  as  to  give  Duncan  an  opportunity  of 
seeing  something  of  the  city. 

Duncan    came    up    almost   breathless   from 
his    rapid    walking,    and    after   exchanging    a 


DERB  Y  DA  Y.  251 

hurried  greeting  with  the  party,  mounted  to 
the  seat  beside  Florence  left  vacant  by  Harold 
Wainwright.  "Let  'em  go/'  Sedger  called  to 
the  grooms.  The  lead  bars  rattled,  the  leaders 
pranced  as  the  grooms  jumped  from  their 
heads,  the  wheelers  sprang  into  their  collars, 
and  the  coach  rolled  off  down  the  Avenue. 

It  was  a  bright  June  day,  and  all  Chicago 
seemed  to  be  in  the  long,  tree-lined  boulevard 
which  stretched  away  to  the  south.  Hun 
dreds  of  vehicles  of  every  description  known 
to  the  coach-builder's  craft  were  rolling  over 
the  hard  macadam  pavement,  bearing  people 
to  the  races,  and  in  this  motley  array  were 
to  be  found  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men 
and  carriages.  Buggies  and  express  wagons, 
stanhopes  and  butcher  carts,  mail-phaetons 
and  road-carts,  char-a-bancs  and  extension 
tops,  victorias  and  "hacks,"  coaches  and  om 
nibuses,  aristocracy  and  democracy  scattered 
the  same  dust  and  rolled  toward  the  same 
goal.  Only  the  road  to  Epsom  can  present  a 
scene  more  varied  than  this;  only  the  Champs 
Elysees  excels  the  noble  avenue  down  which 
Walter  Sedger  tooled  his  team  of  browns. 

"It   is   a   pleasure   to   live   on    such  a   day, 


252  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

with  four  such  horses  to  drive  behind,  isn't  it, 
Mr.  Grahame?"  asked  Florence,  as  the  coach 
rolled  past  the  Auditorium,  and  the  team  set 
tled  down  to  their  work. 

"I  am  surprised  you  think  so,"  answered 
Duncan,  with  a  bantering  expression  in  his 
eyes. 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  don't  see  how  you  reconcile  so 
Anglican  an  institution  as  a  drag  with  your 
patriotic  sentiments." 

"You  forget  that  George  Washington  hunted, 
and  had  his  clothes  made  in  London." 

"Then  I  am  to  infer  that  the  highest  type 
of  patriot  is  he  who  rides  to  hounds  and  gets 
his  coats  on  Hanover  or  Conduit  Street." 

"You  are  to  infer  that  the  highest  type  of 
patriot  is  not  he  who  blusters  sectional  prej 
udice  from  under  the  shade  of  a  slouch  hat, 
but  he  who  is  sufficiently  liberal  to  combine 
foreign  excellencies  with  native  virtues." 

"You  have  a  flow  of  expression  which  would 
do  credit  to  a  campaign  orator,"  laughed  Dun 
can.  "For  my  part  I  don't  believe  in  patriot 
ism,  at  least  in  the  sentimental  sense  of  the 
word.  Patriotism  is  a  compound  of  pride 


DERB  Y  DA  Y.  253 

and  jealousy.  Eliminate  these  two  factors, 
to  use  an  algebraic  expression,  and  nothing 
remains." 

"I  fear  we  shall  never  agree  on  such  ques 
tions/'  said  Florence,  anxious  not  to  enter  into 
a  useless  argument  with  Duncan. 

"Perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  my  fault,"  answered 
Duncan  with  an  expression  of  sadness  in  his 
eyes  which  seemed  strange  to  Florence.  "I 
wish  I  might  believe  in  noble  sentiment,  but 
a  man  who  has  had  his  wings  clipped  in  Wall 
Street  is  not  the  chap  for  sentiment." 

"Perhaps  you  will  change  your  mind  one 
day,"  answered  Florence. 

"It  would  only  take  one  example  of  true 
sentiment  to  convert  me,"  said  Duncan  gravely. 
"Well,"  he  added,  after  a  moment,  "there  may 
be  rough  spots  in  a  worldly  life,  but  there  is 
no  dullness,  and,  after  all,  that  is  what  most 
of  us  try  to  avoid.  While  the  sparkle  lasts 
life  is  sweet,  but  when  it  is  gone  one  might 
as  well  give  up  the  fight." 

Mrs.  Smith  of  Cincinnati  interrupted  them 
by  asking  Florence  if  she  knew  what  the 
large,  brick  building  on  the  left  was. 

"That  is   the   Calumet  Club,"  Florence   an- 


254  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

swered,  and  then  they  subsided,  for  a  moment, 
into  silence. 

Approaching  Grand  Boulevard  the  crowd 
of  vehicles  became  denser,  and  the  coaching 
party  found  much  to  amuse  them.  Sedger 
pointed  his  leaders  around  the  corner  of 
Thirty-fifth  Street,  and  the  coach  swayed  and 
rocked  as  the  four  browns  dashed  around  the 
turn  into  the  short  cross-street.  The  horn 
was  sounded  to  warn  the  street  cars  of  their 
approach,  and  then,  after  a  passing  glance  of 
horses,  coach,  and  party,  reflected  in  the  broad 
shop  windows  of  the  street,  another  corner 
was  turned,  and  they  were  rolling  along  the 
broad  boulevard  leading  to  Washington  Park. 
Sedger  was  late,  and,  anxious  to  be  in  time 
for  the  first  race,  he  sent  his  lash  under  the 
lead  bars,  and  touched  the  off  leader  a  clip 
on  the  legs  which  made  him  jump  into  his 
collar  in  quick  order.  The  team  all  caught 
the  inspiration  of  the  lash,  the  pace  was  quick 
ened,  and  the  great  vehicle  rumbled  on  past 
the  small  fry  of  the  road,  quickly  measuring 
off  the  two  miles  or  more  of  straight  avenue 
stretching  away  toward  the  park.  The  party 
on  the  drag  laughed  and  talked,  and  occasion- 


DERB  Y  DA  Y.  255 

ally  glanced  at  the  quickly  changing  scene. 
Soon  the  coach  was  rolling  past  the  great, 
green  meadow  of  the  park  so  English  in  its 
aspect,  and  then,  after  passing  a  bit  of  lake 
where  hundreds  of  holiday  seekers  were  now 
stretched  in  the  cool  shade  of  the  shrubs  on 
its  banks,  rattled  down  the  little  incline  which 
leads  to  the  Club  House  road.  The  strains 
of  band-music  came  over  the  bit  of  level 
ground  and  the  party  could  see  the  great 
Grand  Stand  crowded  with  its  ten  thousand 
spectators.  By  its  side  was  the  Club  House, 
standing  on  a  rise  of  ground  skirted  by  lawns 
and  flower-beds,  its  two  verandas  filled  with 
people,  and  the  driveway  in  front  crowded 
with  arriving  vehicles. 

Sedger  urged  his  team  to  a  gallop,  and  the 
horses  scampered  through  the  lodge-gate  and 
up  the  little  hill  to  the  Club  House,  where 
he  brought  them  up  "all  standing."  The 
people  on  the  veranda  crowded  forward  to 
see  the  coaching  party,  while  Sedger  and  his 
guests  descended,  and  the  coachman  drove 
the  steaming  horses  off  to  the  stables.  Scores 
of  smart  traps  followed  the  drag  up  to  the 
club  steps,  and  the  party  stopped  a  moment 


25G  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

to  view  the  brilliant  scene.  Sleek  horses  and 
polished  brass,  neat  liveries  and  shining  pan 
els,  bright  gowns  and  gay  parasols,  moved  in 
seemingly  endless  succession  to  the  accom 
panying  music  of  champing  bits  and  the  rest 
less  pawing  of  countless  hoofs.  After  watch 
ing  the  changing  throng  for  a  moment, 
Sedger  and  his  party  walked  through  the 
Club  House  to  the  veranda  facing  the  course, 
which  they  found  filled  with  members  and 
their  friends.  On  the  enclosed  lawn  before 
them  people  were  sitting  in  chairs,  or  walk 
ing  up  and  down.  Considering  this  the  best 
place  to  view  the  sport,  they  placed  seats  on 
the  green  turf  and  sat  down  in  the  shade  of 
the  Club  House. 

"A  capital  course  this,"  said  Duncan  to 
Marion,  as  he  glanced  across  the  turf-covered 
enclosure  filled  with  smartly  dressed  people 
to  the  track  beyond,  where  a  half  dozen  racers 
were  taking  their  preliminary  gallop.  "I  had 
no  idea  you  had  such  a  place  as  this  in  Chi 
cago,"  he  added,  and  then  Sedger  suggested 
that  they  go  to  the  betting  ring  and  see  how 
the  betting  was. 

"Wait    till    after  this    race,"   put    in    Wain- 


DERB  Y  DA  Y.  257 

wright.      "There  go  the    horses  to  the  post." 

"Well,  if  we  can't  play  this  race,  we  must 
have  a  hat  pool,"  answered  Sedger,  who  felt 
that  not  to  have  something  on  a  race  was  to 
lose  half  the  sport.  "Let's  see,  there  are  just 
seven  horses  and  seven  of  our  party.  Five 
dollars  apiece  for  a  flyer." 

No  one  objected,  so  Sedger  wrote  the  seven 
numbers  on  little  pieces  of  paper  which  he 
tore  off  his  programme,  and,  shaking  them 
up  in  his  hat,  he  passed  them  about  among 
his  party. 

"What  horse  have  you,  Mrs.  Sanderson?"" 
asked  Duncan  as  she  drew  her  number  from 
the  hat. 

"Number  seven,"  answered  Marion,  and 
Duncan  looked  at  his  card  to  see  what  horse 
it  was.  "Orion,"  he  said,  "and  his  colors  are 
purple  and  white." 

"My  husband's  university  colors;  that  ought 
to  bring  me  luck." 

"Not  on  Orion,  I  am  afraid,"  interrupted 
Sedger,  who  prided  himself  on  his  knowledge 
of  the  turf.  "He  was  a  'twenty-to-one  shot* 
in  town  last  night,  but  I'll  be  generous  and 
give  you  two  dollars  for  him." 

17 


258  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

"No,  I  prefer  to  keep  him.  Orion  may 
prove  a  lucky  star  after  all." 

"By  Jove,  they're  off !"  shouted  Duncan, 
who  had  been  watching  the  horses  at  the 
post  on  the  other  side  of  the  course.  They 
were  all  well  bunched,  the  red  flag  dropped, 
and  away  they  scampered  on  a  five-furlong 
dash. 

"Orion's  last,  Mrs.  Sanderson,"  called  Sed- 
ger,  who  was  following  the  race  with  a  large 
pair  of  russet-leathered  field-glasses.  "Orion's 
last,  but  I'll  give  you  a  dollar  for  your  chance." 

"Don't  take  it,  Mrs.  Sanderson,  he's  com 
ing  up,"  said  Duncan,  as  the  horses  dashed 
around  the  first  turn,  scattering  a  cloud  of 
dust  behind  them.  Then  the  crowd  in  front 
of  the  Grand  Stand  began  to  surge  and  sway, 
and  the  sea  of  ten  thousand  hats  was  lashed 
to  excitement.  A  murmur  broke  forth  from 
the  distant  crowd  as  a  mass  of  color  and 
racers  emerged  from  the  dust  and  rushed 
down  the  home  stretch;  then  the  cheering 
grew  louder  and  the  hats  swayed  more  furi 
ously  as  the  horses  dashed  on  to  the  finish. 

"Look  at  Orion  now,"  said  Duncan,  "he's 
a  good  second.  By  Jove,  he  wins !"  he 


DERB  Y  DA  Y.  259 

shouted,  as  the  purple  and  white  rushed 
to  the  front  and  won  hands  down  by  a 
neck.  "I  congratulate  you,  Mrs.  Sanderson." 
"Who  would  have  thought  the  brute  could 
beat  'The  Wizard'  who  sold  at  two  to  one 
on"  said  Sedger,  and  then  he  suggested  that 
the  men  should  go  to  the  betting  ring  and 
play  the  Derby. 

Duncan  turned  to  Marion  and  asked  if  she 
would  not  choose  him  a  horse  to  play.  "You 
are  so  lucky  that  I  feel  sure  of  winning," 
he  added. 

"But  I  know  nothing  about  the  horses," 
remonstrated  Marion. 

"Neither  do    I,  so  we  have  a  fair  chance." 
"Well,   I  choose  Belle  of  Newport." 
"You  think  she  ought  to  be  fast,  I  suppose." 
"No,    but    the    Marquis,  who,    Mr.    Sedger 
says,   is    a   favorite,    will    be    sure    to    follow 
her." 

"Don't  you  play  the  Belle,  Grahame,"  said 
Sedger,  as  he  and  Duncan  left  the  ladies  and 
wandered  toward  the  Grand  Stand.  "Her 
owner  told  me  last  night  that  he  is  afraid 
she  isn't  fit." 

"Perhaps  he  intends  playing  her  himself," 
laughed  Duncan. 


260  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

Sedger  and  Duncan  passed  over  the  bridge 
connecting  the  Club  House  lawn  with  the 
Grand  Stand,  and  were  soon  in  the  midst  of 
the  great  crowd  moving  toward  the  betting- 
rooms.  The  sun  beat  down  upon  the  heads 
of  this  army  of  enthusiasts,  but,  despite  the 
heat,  thousands  of  men  crowded  into  the  low 
room  where  scores  of  keen  book-makers,  with 
their  coats  off,  were  ranged  in  little  booths, 
calling  off  the  odds  on  the  next  race,  and 
taking  the  money  of  the  eager  crowd  of  gam 
blers.  By  the  time  Sedger  and  Duncan  had 
worked  their  way  through  this  throng  up  to 
a  book-maker,  and  had  purchased  two  tickets- 
on  Marquis  and  Belle  of  Newport  respect 
ively,  they  were  thankful  to  hurry  out  of 
the  stifling  place  into  the  open  air. 

"I  took  your  advice,  Mrs.  Sanderson," 
said  Duncan,  after  he  had  returned  to  the 
club  lawn.  "Belle  of  Newport  is  my  horse." 

"I  hope  my  choice  won't  bring  you  ill  luck." 

"We  shall  soon  know,  for  there  go  the 
horses  to  the  post." 

Five  of  the  starters  trotted  past  the  Club 
House,  and  there  was  a  perceptible  movement 
among  the  people  on  the  veranda  and  lawn 


DERB  Y  DA  Y.  261 

as  the  contestants  for  the  great  event  passed 
before  them.  The  Marquis  was  the  favorite 
and  he  was  greeted  by  a  round  of  applause,  as 
Jockey  Gannon  urged  him  into  a  brisk  hand 
gallop.  The  sleek  sides  of  the  chestnut  geld 
ing  glistened  in  the  sunshine,  and  he  certainly 
looked  a  winner.  Close  at  his  heels  was  the 
bay  Kentucky  filly,  Belle  of  Newport,  ridden 
by  the  veteran  Forest,  and  the  knowing  ones 
could  see  that  the  Southern  mare  was  in  prime 
condition.  The  first  horses  were  followed  by 
three  stragglers  who  had  been  late  in  saddling, 
and  then  the  starter's  carriage  rolled  across 
the  green  turf  of  the  field  toward  the  half- 
mile  post  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  course. 
Hundreds  of  glasses  were  leveled  at  the 
bunch  of  racers  over  by  the  stables,  restlessly 
tugging  at  their  bits.  Then  there  was  a 
scramble  and  a  rush  of  horses  past  the  red 
flag,  but  one  horse  was  slow  in  getting  away 
and  the  flag  still  fluttered  in  the  breeze.  The 
jockeys  pulled  up  their  mounts  and  turned 
them  back  to  the  starting-post.  After  much 
manoeuvring  for  positions,  they  scrambled 
away  again,  scattering  the  dust  behind  them. 
They  were  well  bunched,  the  red  flag  dropped, 


262  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

and  away  they  went  on  the  mile  and  a  half 
gallop  for  the  American  Derby.  The  crowd 
surged  wildly  and  eager  eyes  were  strained 
toward  the  mass  of  horses  scampering  over 
the  first  half-mile  of  the  course. 

Down  they  came  to  the  Grand  Stand,  a  cloud 
of  dust  enveloping  them  and  almost  conceal 
ing  the  bright  colors  of  the  riders.  Men 
rushed  to  the  railings  and  strained  their  eyes 
down  the  course;  a  faint  murmur  broke  from 
the  crowd  and  grew  louder  and  louder.  "Mar 
quis!  Marquis  wins!"  was  shouted  by  the  favor 
ite's  friends,  as  they  saw  the  long  stride  of 
the  chestnut  gelding  in  front.  Then  the 
racers  clattered  past  the  Grand  Stand,  urged 
on  by  cheers  and  applause. 

It  was  nobody's  race  yet,  but  Marquis  still 
led,  with  Belle  of  Newport  a  good  second. 
They  passed  the  Club  House  with  Marquis 
close  to  the  inside  railing  for  the  turn,  when 
he  swerved  against  the  railing  and  stumbled. 
There  was  a  shout  of  horror,  and  the  women 
at  the  Club  House  turned  their  heads  away. 
The  racers  rushed  on  to  the  finish,  but  the 
favorite  lay  there  in  the  dust,  with  the  blood 
gushing  from  a  broken  knee,  and  Jockey  Gan- 


DERB  Y  DA  Y.  263 

non  motionless  at  his  side.  Some  men  ran 
on  to  the  course  and  carried  Gannon  away. 
The  poor  Marquis  tried  to  rise  and  looked 
pleadingly  at  his  owner  who  had  rushed  to 
his  side.  From  the  distance  came  a  cheer. 
It  was  for  the  Belle  of  Newport,  the  winner 
of  the  great  race.  Jockey  Forest  had  seen 
the  Marquis  go  down  before  him,  and  press 
ing  his  knees  to  the  sides  of  the  Belle,  had 
raised  the  filly  and  carried  her  over  the  fallen 
favorite.  The  other  riders  had  seen  the  acci 
dent  in  time,  and,  swerving  their  mounts 
aside,  they  had  rushed  on  to  the  finish,  while 
the  Marquis  lay  there  in  the  dust  pleading 
for  help  with  his  mournful  eyes.  A  veterin 
ary  bent  over  the  horse's  wound.  He  held  a 
hurried  consultation  with  the  owner;  then 
some  one  placed  a  revolver  against  the  poor 
beast's  head;  there  was  a  loud  report,  a  con 
vulsive  kick,  and  the  noble  racer  lay  dead  on 
the  field  he  had  striven  so  hard  to  win.  A 
pair  of  work-horses  was  brought  on  to  the 
course  and  all  that  remained  of  the  Marquis 
was  dragged  away,  while  over  by  the  little 
lake,  under  the  shade  of  an  elm,  Jockey  Gan 
non  lay  stretched  on  the  turf.  A  physician 


264  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

was  by  his  side,  and  a  crowd  of  curious  people 
gazed  at  the  pale  face  before  them.  "He 
may  live  till  morning,"  the  physician  said,  and 
then  the  wounded  jockey  was  silently  borne 
away.  The  band  played  again,,  the  blood 
stains  on  the  course  were  covered  by  fresh 
dirt,  and  the  bell  rang  for  the  next  race. 
People  asked  a  few  questions  about  the  dying 
man,  and  then  he  was  forgotten  in  the  excite 
ment  of  the  sport.  It  was  only  a  jockey. 

"You  see,  you  brought  me  luck,  Mrs.  San 
derson,"  Duncan  said  to  Marion,  after  he  had 
returned  from  getting  his  Belle  of  Newport 
ticket  cashed.  "Two  hundred  dollars  for 
forty.  That  is  luck,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  but  that  reminds  me  of  the  accident. 
Do  you  know,  I  feel  quite  unnerved  after 
that  sight." 

"You  had  better  walk  with  me  on  the  lawn. 
It  will  do  you  good,  I  am  sure." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Marion  as  she  rose  to  go 
with  him. 

For  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour  they 
walked  up  and  down  the  lawn,  chatting 
away  unconcernedly  about  the  people  around 
them.  It  was  the  first  time  they  had  been 


DERB  Y  DA  Y.  265 

alone  together  since  Duncan's  return,  but  he 
made  not  the  slightest  reference  to  their  last 
meeting.  He  was  careless  and  unconcerned, 
and  Marion  tried  to  appear  the  same,  but 
there  was  a  strange  feeling  in  her  heart,  half 
of  fear  and  half  of  resentment,  which  told 
her  that  indifference  had  no  place  there. 
She  laughed  and  chatted,  but  waited  anx 
iously,  thankful  that  so  many  people  were 
there,  but  hopeful  that  he  might  say  some 
thing  to  tell  her  that  he  remembered  the 
words  he  had  spoken  at  the  Patricians'  ball. 

Suddenly  Duncan  stopped  at  a  secluded 
part  of  the  lawn  where  there  was  an  empty 
bench.  "Let  us  sit  down  here  in  the  shade. 
You  must  be  tired,"  he  said,  and  then,  after 
they  had  taken  seats,  a  moment  of  silence 
came,  and  Marion  could  feel  that  Duncan  was 
looking  into  her  face,  but  she  did  not  dare  to 
meet  his  glance.  He  leaned  toward  her  and 
spoke  in  the  soft  tones  she  remembered  so 
well.  "You  are  cruel,"  he  said. 

She  looked  up,  startled.  "Cruel,  what  do 
you  mean?"  she  asked. 

"You  are  cruel  to  forget  so  easily.  You 
are  cruel  to  treat  me  as  you  have." 


266  WITH  EDGE  TOOLS. 

"I,  cruel;  I  don't  understand,"  she  said,  and 
she  thought  of  his  careless  manner  and  how 
she  had  waited  for  him  to  speak. 

"Yes,  you  women  are  all  alike.  You  play 
with  us  men  for  the  moment,  and  then  we 
are  cast  aside  like  a  toy  which  no  longer 
pleases.  I  thought  you  were  different  from 
the  rest." 

Marion  looked  up  into  his  face  with  an 
expression  of  astonishment.  She  met  his 
grey  eyes,  and  for  a  moment  she  felt  again 
that  subtle  power  she  had  been  dreaming  of 
so  long. 

"Have  you  forgotten?"  he  said  slowly. 

Marion  turned  her  head  away.  "Don't  talk 
of  that,  Mr.  Grahame,"  she  answered.  "That 
is  all  ended." 

"It  can't  be  ended  while "  He  did  not 

finish  for  he  saw  a  man  approaching.  "Here 
we  are,  Sanderson,"  he  called  carelessly.  I 
suppose  you  are  looking  for  your  wife." 

"Yes,"  answered  Roswell,  coming  nearer. 
"Mr.  Sedger  has  tea  ready  on  the  upper 
veranda,  and  he  wants  his  party.  You  look 
pale,  Marion,  is  anything  the  matter?" 

"I  felt  very  much  upset  by  that    accident. 


DERB  Y  DA  Y.  267 


I    came   here  to   get    away  from    the    people 
for  a  moment." 

"A    cup    of   tea    will    put    you    right,"  said 
Duncan. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

DANGER. 

The  races  were  over,  and  the  rays  of  the 
setting  sun  streamed  through  the  western 
window  of  the  little  dining-room  where  Wal 
ter  Sedger's  party  was  seated.  The  glass 
and  plate  glistened  in  the  fading  sunlight,  and 
cast  many  deep  shadows  on  the  white  table 
cover,  while  the  faces  of  the  people  sitting 
there  were  flushed  with  the  first  glow  of  the 
approaching  twilight.  The  servants  moved 
quietly  from  place  to  place,  and  the  merry 
conversation  of  Sedger's  friends  mingled  with 
the  soft  strains  of  a  Viennese  waltz  coming 
through  the  open  hallway  door.  The  thou 
sands  who  had  crowded  the  course  that  day 
had  rumbled  back  over  the  dusty  roads  to 
the  city.  The  huge  Grand  Stand  was  silent 
and  deserted,  and  only  the  few  parties  dining 
at  the  club  remained  of  the  great  crowd  that 
had  cheered  Belle  of  Newport  in  her  Derby 
victory.  The  refreshing  cool  of  the  evening 


DANGER.  269 

seemed  to  inspire  the  tired  people  with  new 
spirits,  and  the  addition  to  their  number  of 
Jack  Elliot  and  his  coaching  party  supplied 
the  zest  of  variety,  while  the  tales  of  a  clever 
raconteur  produced  peals  of  merry  laughter 
and  called  forth  the  utmost  efforts  of  the 
staid  French  waiters  to  preserve  their  habit 
ual  immobility  of  countenance. 

When  the  dinner  was  over  and  the  party 
had  removed  to  the  veranda  for  coffee  and 
cigars,  each  person  there  had  forgotten,  for 
the  moment,  all  the  cares  of  life,  and  was 
lost  in  the  delightful  joy  of  living.  Excep 
tion  must,  however,  be  made  of  Marion,  for, 
although  the  society  of  others  usually  enabled 
her  to  cast  aside  the  depressing  influences 
which  often  afflicted  her,  on  this  occasion  she 
was  unusually  silent,  and  had  been  quite  un 
responsive  to  the  loquacious  efforts  exerted 
by  the  grain  broker  on  her  right  to  arouse 
her  interest.  She  now  sat  a  little  removed 
from  the  rest  and  gazed  moodily  out  over 
the  deserted  race-course,  thinking  over  the 
events  of  the  past  few  months,  and  wonder 
ing,  in  a  dazed  sort  of  way,  what  the  out 
come  would  be.  The  men  had  gathered  to- 


270  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

gether  and  were  discussing  sport,  while  the 
women  talked  animatedly  about  a  certain 
Mrs.  Johnson  whose  actions  had  lately  been 
disapproved  of  in  certain  quarters,  so  Marion 
was  permitted  to  follow  the  current  of  her 
fancies  undisturbed. 

It  was  just  dark  enough  for  the  freshly 
lighted  cigars  to  glow  in  the  fading  light. 
With  the  setting  of  the  sun  had  come  the 
silence  evening  casts  over  a  busy  city,  and 
except  the  occasional  croaking  of  a  frog  in 
the  Club  House  lake,  or  the  distant  whistle  of 
a  locomotive,  there  was  no  sound  to  break  the 
evening  quiet.  Away  over  by  the  long  row  of 
red-roofed  stables  a  pair  of  work-horses  were 
slowly  dragging  a  harrow  over  the  deserted 
race-course,  and  they  and  the  laborer  trudg 
ing  behind  them  were  the  only  evidences  of 
life  which  Marion  could  see.  The  last  sun- 
gleam  left  the  sky,  but  a  fading  tinge  of 
light  still  rested  upon  the  clouds.  Marion 
watched  it  for  a  moment, — then  it  was  gone. 
It  seemed  to  her  like  a  life  which  fades 
slowly  into  oblivion.  She  often  thought  of 
the  unseen,  and  tried,  occasionally,  to  form 
some  life  theory  which  seemed  rational.  To- 


DANGER.  271 

night,  in  the  stillness  which  came  after  the 
bustle  of  the  day,  she  felt  singularly  alone. 
She  looked  up  into  the  impenetrable  darkness 
and  to  her  fancy  the  world  seemed  a  fright 
ful  pit  of  blackness  with  a  mass  of  living  creat 
ures  at  the  bottom, — writhing  in  misery  and 
gasping  for  a  breath  of  happiness.  And  God? 
An  awful  monster  at  the  pit's  mouth,  baiting 
the  distorted  souls  with  pestilence  or  dang 
ling  hopes  before  their  burning  eyes,  only  to 
mock  their  struggles  and  let  them  sink  down ! 
down !  down  !  Death  comes  to  one  sufferer, 
and  then,  with  a  gloating  laugh,  the  monster 
drops  another  life  into  the  pit  to  let  it  writhe 
in  its  awful  misery.  Marion  shuddered  at 
her  fancy,  and  glanced  up  as  if  expecting  to 
see  the  monster's  eyes  gleaming  at  the  pit's 
mouth.  The  thought  was  horrible,  and  she 
covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands  to  shut  out 
her  distorted  imaginations,  asking  herself  if 
there  was  no  power  strong  enough  to  drive 
away  the  spirit  of  gloom  which  beset  her, 
and  make  her  pulses  beat  with  joy.  Deep 
in  her  heart  she  felt  there  was  such  a  power, 
but  it  troubled  her  to  think  of  it. 

"Mrs.  Sanderson."     She  looked  up,  startled, 


272  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

and  saw  Duncan  by  her  side.  "I  thought  you 
might  like  to  walk  on  the  other  side  of  the 
veranda.  It  is  delightfully  cool  there." 

For  a  moment  she  hesitated.  "What  can 
be  the  harm?"  she  thought.  "None"  was  the 
answer  she  gave  her  question,  and  then  she 
followed  Duncan  to  the  northern  side  of  the 
veranda  where  an  arm  of  the  building  hid 
them  from  the  others.  The  moon  was  rising 
and  her  soft  light  was  shed  upon  the  sough 
ing  trees,  and  the  stretch  of  white  roadway 
before  them.  It  was  one  of  those  perfect 
nights  of  early  summer  when  the  vexatious 
spirits  of  the  day  seem  lulled  to  sleep  by 
the  mild  airs  of  heaven,  and  as  Marion  sat 
there  looking  out  over  the  moonlit  park,  she 
wondered  at  the  gruesome  fancies  which  had 
filled  her  mind  but  a  moment  before. 

"It  is  a  joy  to  live  on  such  a  night  as  this," 
she  said,  after  the  moment  of  silence  which 
followed  their  coming. 

Duncan  leaned  toward  her,  and  spoke  in 
the  deep,  soft  tones  Marion  remembered  so 
well.  "I  feel,"  he  said,  "that  heaven  has  sent 
us  this  peaceful  night  to  show  us  that  happi 
ness  can  be  a  reality." 


DANGER.  273 

"It  is  fortunate  that  perfect  happiness  sel 
dom  conies,"  she  replied;  "the  monotony  of 
it  would  be  unendurable." 

"Do  you  think  it  would  be  monotonous 
always  to  love?"  he  asked. 

"Not  if  it  were  possible,"  she  answered  after 
a  moment  of  thought. 

"I  know  it  is  possible,"  he  said  firmly. 

"How?"  she  asked,  looking  up  into  his  face. 

His  hand  touched  hers.  "Because,  when  I 
look  into  your  eyes,  I  feel  a  love  which  no 
power  on  earth  could  change."  She  let  her 
hand  remain  in  his,  but  she  turned  her  face 
away.  "How  can  I  know  this  love  is  sin 
cere  ?"  she  asked. 

"By  driving  the  cruel  spirit  out  of  your 
heart.  You  may  send  me  away  again  as  you 
did  last  winter,  but  I  will  come  back,  for, 
Marion,  I  love  you,  and  I  must  have  your 
love."  Instinctively  she  started  to  her  feet. 
Duncan  was  quickly  by  her  side.  His  arm 
was  about  her,  and  she  felt  his  lips  against 
her  cheek. 

"I  love  you,  my  Marion,"  he  whispered 
passionately;  "you  shall  not  leave  me."  For 
a  moment  she  rested  her  head  against  his 

18 


274  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

breast  and  felt  the  embrace  of  his  strong 
arms. 

"If  it  were  not  .a  sin,  Duncan/'  she  said, 
looking  up  into  his  eyes,  "I  might  love  you." 

"No  love  like  ours  can  be  a  sin.  It  is 
heaven  sent." 

"If  it  only  were,"  she  sighed;  then  he  drew 
her  closer  to  him. 

"It  is,  dearest,"  he  said.  "If  you  will  listen 
to  me,  you  will  believe  it,  too." 

"I  must  not  listen   to  you,   Duncan." 

"Must   I  go   away?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"Then  I  was  foolish  to  fancy  I  could  read 
love  in  your  eyes." 

"Don't  torture  me." 

"I,  torture?  It  is  you  who  send  me  from 
you." 

"I  know  it,  but  think  of  the  danger  we  are 
in.  Leave  me  to-night,  Duncan.  To-morrow 
Florence  will  be  with  Mr.  Wainwright's  aunt, 
and  Roswell  goes  to  St.  Louis.  Dine  with 
me  at  eight,  perhaps  I  can  tell  you  then, 
but  not  to-night.  I  must  have  time  to  think." 

"I  will  go  now,"  he  said,  "but  I  will  come 
to  you  to-morrow."  He  kissed  her. 


DANGER.  275 

"God  help  me,"  she  sighed. 

Duncan  quietly  released  her  and  they  walked 
silently  back  toward  the  place  where  they  had 
left  the  others.  At  the  corner  of  the  building 
they  met  Sedger.  It  was  too  dark  for  him 
to  notice  that  Marion  was  agitated,  and  any 
possible  suspicions  were  averted  by  Duncan's 
saying  quietly,  "Here  we  are.  We  had  just 
started  to  join  you.  Is  the  drag  ready?" 

"Yes.  I  have  been  collecting  the  party. 
You  are  the  last  to  be  found.  It's  a  capital 
night  for  a  drive  and  I  intend  to  take  you 
back  through  Jackson  Park." 

"Splendid,"  said  Marion.  "I  adore  driving 
in  the  moonlight." 

The  party  had  left  the  veranda,  and  Marion 
and  her  companions  walked  to  where  they 
were  waiting.  They  were  obliged  to  descend 
the  stairs  to  the  hallway  below,  and  by  the 
time  they  reached  the  rendezvous  she  felt 
perfectly  calm  and  collected.  They  were  com 
pelled  to  wait  a  moment  for  a  missing  wrap. 
Marion  stood  next  to  Duncan,  and  a  wild 
sense  of  pleasure  was  in  her  heart.  The  fear 
had  gone,  and  her  love  made  her  defiant. 
She  felt  that  she  might  give  him  his  answer 
then. 


276  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

The  missing  wrap  was  found,  and  the  party 
moved  toward  the  door.  As  they  passed  out 
they  could  see  the  dark  outlines  of  the  drag- 
looming  up  in  the  moonlight.  The  great 
coach  lamps  cast  a  flickering  light  upon  the 
roadway  and  the  horses  champed  impatiently 
at  the  bits.  Sedger  mounted  to  the  box  and 
this  time  Mrs.  Smith  had  the  seat  beside 
him.  A  couple  of  Sedger's  friends  had  been 
picked  up  at  the  club,  so  Marion  said  she 
would  take  the  back  seat.  Duncan  joined  her 
there,  and  she  was  astonished  to  find  her  hus 
band  next  her  also. 

The  drag  rolled  away  from  the  Club  House, 
and  swayed  and  rocked  as  Sedger  let  the 
horses  gallop  through  the  gates  and  along 
the  little  stretch  of  road  leading  to  the  park. 
The  evening  breeze  blew  softly  against  the 
faces  of  the  party,  and  the  coach  rumbled 
along  past  the  park  lake,  with  the  moon 
light  glistening  on  its  surface,  and  the  slender 
trees  standing  out  grim  and  shadowy  like 
huge  phantoms  guarding  its  banks.  Then 
the  team  settled  down  to  a  steady  pace,  and 
through  the  dim  light  the  leaders  could  just 
be  seen  huddling  together,  with  their  ears 


DANGER.  277 

pricked  up  for  every  sound.  Horses  seem  to 
travel  best  at  night,  and  the  steady  creaking 
of  the  harness,  harmonizing  with  the  rattle  of 
the  bars  and  the  lively  clatter  of  hoofs  on  the 
hard  ground,  came  like  sweet  music  through 
the  night  air.  A  leader  shied  at  a  shadow; 
the  coach  swayed  for  a  moment,  and  the 
party  crowded  closer  together.  Some  one 
started  a  college  song;  the  refrain  was  caught 
up  by  the  rest,  and  the  chorus  swelled  forth 
a  familiar  glee.  Along  the  tree-lined  ave 
nues  or  through  winding  roadways  the  great 
coach  rolled.  Now  the  leaders  plunged  into 
the  dark  shadows  of  the  woods,  or  trotted 
merrily  past  some  open  meadow,  while  from 
the  long  coach-horn  the  notes  of  "  Who'll 
buy  a  broom,"  soundecl  sharp  and  clear  on 
the  night  air: 

"  For  though  the  sound  of  the  horn  is  dead, 

And  the  guards  are  turned  to  clay, 
There  are  those  who  remember  the  'yard  of  tin,' 
And  the  mail  of  the  olden  day." 

Then,  for  a  while,  they  sped  along  the  shores 
of  the  great  lake,  and  mingling  with  the 
rumbling  of  wheels  came  the  splash  of  the 
waves  upon  the  sandy  shore. 


278  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

The  songs  grew  less  frequent,  the  laughter 
ceased,  and  the  party  gradually  lapsed  into 
silence.  A  reckless  daring,  such  as  she  had 
never  known  before,  possessed  Marion.  In 
her  imagination  she  seemed  to  be  rolling  on 
toward  some  dazzling  goal,  and  she  laughed 
at  the  thought  of  danger.  The  moon  passed 
under  a  cloud  and  she  felt  the  strong  grasp 
of  Duncan's  hand  about  her  own.  She  looked 
toward  her  husband  and  there  was  a  cold, 
stony  feeling  in  her  heart.  She  was  glad  to 
feel  that  she  had  the  courage  to  break  from 
the  trammels  of  convention  which  had  so 
long  bound  her,  and  she  felt  a  delightful 
sense  of  freedom  which  told  her  that  at  last 
the  depths  of  her  nature  had  been  fathomed, 
and  that  the  love  lying  there  had  burst  forth 
in  all  its  strength. 

The  coach  left  the  park  and  rolled  into 
the  sleeping  city.  Down  the  long  avenue  it 
went,  past  rows  of  darkened  houses.  The 
cool  breezes  of  the  lake  seemed  warmed  by 
the  heated  pavements,  and  the  freedom  of 
the  country  was  lost  in  the  narrow  lines 
of  streetway.  Marion  sat  watching  the  two 
converging  rows  of  flickering  street  lamps 


DANGER.  279 

stretching  away  as  far  as  she  could  see,  and 
down  the  street  before  her  she  saw  the  lamps 
of  Jack  Elliot's  coach  gleaming  in  the  dark 
ness.  She  remained  lost  in  thought,  and  did 
not  speak  again  until  the  brake  rattled  and 
the  drag  suddenly  stopped. 

Late  that  night  Duncan  sat  in  his  room  at 
the  City  Club.  He  was  partly  undressed  and 
his  clothes  lay  scattered  about  in  heedless 
confusion.  In  his  hand  he  held  a  glass  of 
whiskey  and  soda,  and  between  the  occasional 
sips  he  passed  over  in  his  mind  the  events  of 
the  day.  He  thought  also  of  the  experiences 
of  his  life,  and  the  women  he  had  known 
came  into  his  mind;  women  who  had  trusted 
and  loved  him  while  they  formed  the  idle 
amusement  of  his  hours ;  women  who  had 
felt  his  power  for  a  while,  only  to  see  him 
turn  away  for  some  later  fancy.  He  smiled 
as  he  thought  of  the  words  of  love  he  had 
spoken  to  confiding  hearts,  but  the  smile 
brought  a  tinge  of  remorse  for  the  harm  he 
had  done.  He  thought  of  Marion  in  a  dif 
ferent  light  then,  and  a  feeling  of  pity  came 
into  his  heart  which  prompted  him  to  curb 
his  selfish  nature  and  act  in  a  generous  way; 


280  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

but  the  echo  of  a  cruel  laugh  came  to  him, 
and  in  fancy  he  saw  two  mocking  black  eyes 
gleaming  before  him.  "A  man's  a  fool,"  he 
said  aloud,  "not  to  take  what  fortune  sends 
him." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A   GAME   OF   SKILL. 

The  seemingly  interminable  hours  of  the 
Sunday  following  the  races  passed  slowly  by. 
Marion  spent  the  afternoon  in  her  own  room 
trying  to  think  over  the  possibilities  of  the 
near  future.  Her  heedless  conduct  had  now 
brought  her  to  a  position  which  demanded 
resolute  decision,  and,  surrounded  as  she  was 
by  a  maze  of  temptations,  she  required  to 
exercise  the  calmest  judgment.  A  strong  nat 
ure  is  able,  at  such  times,  to  penetrate  the 
future  and  select  the  wisest  course,  but  it  is 
far  easier,  and  perhaps  more  natural,  to  drift 
aimlessly  along,  trusting  to  no  other  guide 
than  fatuity.  At  moments  a  faint  sense  of 
fear  feebly  urged  Marion  to  hold  back,  but 
wild  fancies  burned  so  impetuously  in  her 
heart  that  she  was  carried  on  past  the  point 
where  she  might  have  calmly  considered  the 
probable  result  of  her  conduct. 

At  last  she  was  a  woman,  she  thought,  and 

281 


282  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

felt  as  other  women  did.  After  years  passed 
in  eking  out  a  monotonous  existence  amid 
repellent  surroundings  she  felt  emancipated 
by  the  knowledge  that  she  had  found  the 
love  her  nature  craved.  Now  that  Duncan 
had  brought  her  this  love  should  she  refuse 
the  gift  and  voluntarily  return  to  the  slavery 
in  which  she  had  lived  so  long?  This  was 
the  question  she  asked  herself.  It  would  be 
transgressing  the  rules  of  society  if  she  per 
mitted  herself  to  enjoy  this  love,  but  what 
difference  did  that  make?  For  years  she  had 
been  religiously  obeying  those  rules,  and  her 
existence  had  been  one  of  wretched  discon 
tent.  Certainly  the  other  course  could  not 
make  her  more  unhappy,  and,  besides,  she 
had  seen  women  in  other  cities  break  loose 
from  the  bonds  of  convention  and  still  main 
tain  a  standing  in  the  world.  In  fact,  they 
had  been  almost  openly  applauded  for  their 
action,  and  certainly  had  not  suffered,  socially, 
for  their  courage.  After  all,  virtue  was  little 
else  than  fear,  and  it  was  only  a  weak  nature 
that  would  permit  itself  to  be  coerced  by  the 
danger  of  discovery.  In  older  places  that 
danger  had  been  modified  by  the  liberality 


A  GAME   OF  SKILL.  283 

of  an  advanced  society,  and  as  she  had  only 
the  restricted  provincialism  of  Chicago  to  fear, 
she  felt  a  secret  delight  in  defying  the  prud 
ish  gossips  of  the  Knox  Presbyterian  Church. 
After  all,  she  felt  that  she  was  clever  enough 
to  elude  discovery,  and  relying  on  her  dis 
cretion  she  permitted  herself  to  dismiss  fear 
from  her  heart  as  unworthy  of  a  superior 
nature.  It  was  by  such  reasoning  as  this 
that  she  forced  her  judgment  to  approve  the 
promptings  of  her  heart. 

Marion  watched  the  moments  roll  by.  As 
the  hour  approached  when  she  was  to  meet 
Duncan  alone  she  felt  calmer  than  she  had  at 
any  time  since  their  parting.  At  six  o'clock 
she  heard  the  brougham  drive  up  to  the  door 
to  take  her  husband  to  the  station,  and  when 
he  came  into  her  room  to  bid  her  good-by, 
she  calmly  kissed  him,  congratulating  herself 
that  she  had  not  betrayed  the  slightest  agi 
tation.  All  love  for  him  was  dead,  she  felt, 
and  when  he  lingered  for  another  embrace, 
she  wondered  that  he  could  not  see  her  heart 
was  cold  and  unmoved.  She  smiled  as  he  left. 
"Foolish  fellow,"  she  thought,  "he  has  never 
known  the  true  warmth  of  my  heart  so  he 


284  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

will  be  content  with  the  cold  effigy  of  love 
I  give  him."  However,  the  words  seemed 
very  harsh,  even  to  her,  and  she  wondered 
if  it  really  were  she  who  had  spoken  them. 
Inspired  by  a  curiosity  to  see  if  she  had 
changed  during  the  day,  she  looked  at  herself 
in  the  long  mirror  of  her  dressing-room  and 
felt  a  secret  pleasure  in  the  thought  that  the 
image  before  her  was  that  of  a  woman  of  the 
world  to  whom  none  of  the  experiences  of  life 
were  strange.  She  thought  her  face  showed 
more  character,  too,  and  she  flattered  herself 
that  it  would  not  be  easy  for  anyone  to  read 
her  thoughts  in  those  deep,  black  eyes. 

The  little  clock  on  her  dressing-table  struck 
half-past  six,  and  she  rang  for  her  maid  to 
dress  her  hair.  After  spending  an  hour-and- 
a-quarter  at  her  toilet,  she  again  arose  and  sur 
veyed  herself  in  the  long  mirror.  Her  pulses 
seemed,  somehow,  to  be  beating  more  rapidly 
now,  and  the  calmness  she  had  felt  before  was 
deserting  her.  The  sense  of  fear  came  into 
her  heart  again,  and  even  her  conscience  ut 
tered  a  faint  remonstrance  at  the  step  she 
was  taking.  She  thought  over  all  the  chances 
of  discovery  and  wondered  whether  there 


A   GAME    OF  SKILL.  9          285 

was  danger  from  the  servants.  Her  cook  and 
her  butler  were  both  French  and,  as  they 
could  speak  but  a  few  words  of  English, 
would  say  nothing;  the  footman  and  house 
maids  she  had  permitted  to  go  out,  and  she 
felt  that  she  could  trust  the  discretion  of  her 
own  maid.  As  for  her  neighbors,  the  peo 
ple  living  next  door  were  not  of  her  set,  and 
she  drew  a  breath  of  relief  on  looking  out 
of  the  window  and  finding  that,  owing  to  a 
cloudy  sky,  it  was  already  nearly  dark.  Still 
she  was  far  from  calm,  and,  thinking  she 
looked  pale,  she  pinched  her  cheeks  to  bring 
color  into  them. 

It  was  time  for  Duncan  to  arrive.  Should 
she  feign  illness  and  send  him  away?  She 
felt  that  it  was  too  late  for  her  to  turn  back 
now,  and  the  thought  of  Duncan  brought  back 
memories  which,  for  the  moment,  drove  fear 
completely  from  her  heart,  and  aroused  the 
reckless  spirit  which  had  already  carried  her  so 
far.  She  took  a  hasty  glance  at  herself  in 
the  glass,  gave  a  final  touch  to  her  hair,  and 
hurried  down  the  stairway  to  the  little  French 
room  where  she  had  been  with  Duncan  on 
the  afternoon  of  Mrs.  McSeeney's  tea.  No 


286  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

longer  able  to  reason  out  excuses  for  her 
actions  she  abandoned  herself  to  the  con 
tending  fancies  which  filled  her  mind.  She 
closed  her  eyes  and  fancied  that  she  was 
being  borne  recklessly  on  toward  a  frightful 
precipice  by  some  subtle  force  against  whose 
power  she  was  helpless.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  she  was  being  dashed  down  I  down !  Then 
she  imagined  that  she  saw  the  remains  of  her 
former  self  lying,  bruised  and  shattered,  at 
the  bottom  of  the  abyss  before  her.  She 
grasped  the  chair-arms  convulsively,  then 
smiled  at  her  childish  fancies,  yet  deep  down 
in  her  heart  there  was  a  feeling,  growing 
stronger  each  moment,  which  urged  her  to 
turn  back. 

The  door-bell  rang.  Marion  could  feel  her 
heart  beating  with  suppressed  excitement, 
and  it  seemed  an  interminable  time  before 
the  measured  steps  of  Francois  resounded 
on  the  hardwood  floor.  The  door  opened 
and  Duncan  entered.  She  could  hear  him 
taking  off  his  coat  in  the  hall,  and  she  felt 
her  brain  whirling  with  the  dizziness  of  con 
fused  emotions.  The  wheels  of  a  carriage 
rumbled  on  the  pavement  outside  and  seemed 


A   GAME   OF  SKILL.  287 

to  stop  before  the  door.  What  did  it  mean? 
Marion  trembled  at  the  thought  that  it  might 
be  some  one  coming  to  the  house.  Duncan 
took  a  step  on  the  hall  floor  and  then  a  key 
rattled  in  the  front  door.  Her  husband  had 
returned.  She  could  feel  her  pulses  stop,  and 
her  limbs  grow  numb  with  fright.  Duncan 
in  the  house,  the  hour,  the  dinner  for  two. 
What  excuse  could  she  make?  The  door 
slammed,  and  she  heard  her  husband's  voice 
in  the  hall.  "Hello,  Grahame,"  he  said,  "are 
you  here?  Just  going,  eh?  Nonsense,  stop 
and  take  pot-luck  with  us.  I  know  my  wife 
will  be  glad  to  have  you.  She  expected  to 
be  alone." 

Marion  was  saved.  She  could  scarcely  be 
lieve  her  senses;  yet  a  sincere  feeling  of  grate 
fulness  to  her  husband  came  into  her  heart, 
and  she  drew  a  deep,  free  breath  which 
brought  the  color  back  to  her  cheeks,  and 
calmed  her  excited  nerves.  All  her  disturbed 
thoughts  seemed  quickly  to  vanish,  and  she 
felt  as  though  she  could  hardly  restrain  her 
self  from  uttering  a  shout  of  joy.  An  hour 
before  she  would  have  felt  resentment  toward 
her  husband,  but  the  specious  arguments  with 


288  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

which  she  had  pardoned  the  wrong  emotions 
of  her  heart  seemed,  somehow,  to  have  fled, 
and  she  could  realize  the  danger  which  had 
threatened  her.  Had  she  been  left  to  meet 
Duncan  alone,  she  might  not  have  proved 
strong  enough  to  resist  his  personality,  but 
now  she  felt  in  her  heart  that  the  peril  was 
passed. 

Roswell  and  Duncan  came  into  the  room. 
"I  missed  my  train,"  Roswell  said,  "so  I 
thought  I  would  come  back  and  dine  with 
you,  my  dear.  I  found  Grahame  in  the  hall 
and  persuaded  him  to  remain.  I  knew  you 
would  be  glad  to  have  him." 

"Your  husband  is  extremely  kind,  Mrs. 
Sanderson,"  said  Duncan.  "I  expected  to 
dine  alone  at  the  Club." 

"Mr.  Grahame  is  always  welcome,"  smiled 
Marion,  wondering  what  would  be  the  out 
come  of  this  discordant  dinner.  She  looked 
at  her  husband  to  see  if  his  manner  betrayed 
any  excitement,  but  she  could  notice  nothing 
unusual. 

"You  won't  mind  if  I  run  away  early,  my 
dear,  will  you  ?"  he  said.  "There  is  another 
train  at  half-past  ten." 


A  GAME    OF  SKILL.  289 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  go  to-night,  dear," 
answered  Marion. 

"I  must.     The  business  is  important." 

Marion  turned  away  thoughtfully,  and  found 
her  eyes  wandering  toward  Duncan.  She  no 
ticed  that  his  face  wore  an  amused  expression, 
as  though  the  situation  seemed  laughable, 
and  the  matter  were  a  huge  joke.  This  care 
lessness  provoked  Marion,  and  she  caught 
herself  wondering  why  she  felt  unmoved  in 
his  presence.  He  was  in  evening  dress,  and 
she  was  amazed  that  her  husband  did  not 
notice  that,  for  an  afternoon  call,  this  was 
an  anachronism. 

After  a  few  moments  of  desultory  conver 
sation,  Francois  appeared  in  the  doorway. 
"Ze  dinner  ez  served,  Madame,"  he  solemnly 
announced,  and  the  little  party  moved  silently 
toward  the  dining-room.  As  they  crossed  the 
hallway  Marion  could  not  help  smiling  at  the 
strange  turn  affairs  had  taken.  It  seemed  to 
her  so  like  an  amusing  situation  in  some 
comedy,  and  she  felt  as  though  she  were  an 
actress  going  through  with  a  part  in  a  play 
which  would,  of  course,  end  happily  when  the 
curtain  was  rung  down  on  the  last  act. 

19 


290  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

The  party  filed  slowly  into  the  dining-room, 
and  took  their  seats  at  the  little,  round  table. 
A  small  candelabrum,  placed  in  the  centre 
of  the  cloth,  supplied  the  only  light,  and 
the  bright  rays  of  the  candles,  falling  on  the 
white  table-cover  and  shining  plate,  formed  a 
cozy  contrast  to  the  oak-lined  walls  loom 
ing  in  the  distance.  Duncan  sat  on  Marion's 
right,  while  her  husband  was  placed  on  her 
left.  During  the  silence  which  came  as  they 
took  their  places,  Marion  looked  curiously  at 
both  men.  Duncan  took  his  seat  with  a  satis 
fied  air,  and  as  he  unfolded  his  napkin  a  care 
less  smile  came  to  his  lips.  In  her  husband's 
eyes  she  saw  an  expression  of  determination, 
and  she  thought  it  unusual  and  out  of  keeping 
with  the  genial  manner  in  which  he  broke  the 
silence  by  saying:  "I  consider  it  very  lucky 
we  trapped  you  into  staying,  Grahame.  I 
have  scarcely  seen  you  since  you  arrived,  and 
I  would  like  to  have  a  friendly  chat  before  we 
come  to  that  elevator  business.  I  shall  be 
back  from  St.  Louis  on  Sunday  and  we  can 
talk  about  the  loan  on  Monday." 

It  was  a  surprise  to  Marion  to  learn  that 
her  husband  and  Duncan  were  evidently  so 


A   GAME   OF  SKILL.  291 

intimate.     She    thought    they    were    scarcely 
acquainted. 

"Any  time  will  do  me,  Sanderson, "answered 
Duncan,  and  then  the  party  began  to  take 
their  soup  in  silence.  Frangois  poured  out 
the  sherry;  Duncan  took  up  his  glass  and 
drained  it  at  one  draught.  As  he  put  it  down, 
he  looked  at  Marion  with  an  amused  ex 
pression  of  triumph,  then,  glancing  toward  her 
husband,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  a  man 
ner  which  conveyed  contempt.  Marion  felt 
a  sense  of  resentment  toward  Duncan  for  as 
suming  such  an  attitude.  His  entire  manner 
seemed  to  give  the  impression  that  he  felt 
quite  as  much  at  home  as  the  master  of  the 
house,  and  as  the  dinner  progressed  he  treated 
her  husband  with  the  easy  familiarity  of 
one  who  felt  the  superiority  of  his  position. 
Marion  noticed  that  Roswell  had  never  once 
changed  the  friendly  tone  of  his  manner,  yet 
she  could  not  help  feeling  that  this  extreme 
affability  was,  in  some  measure,  assumed. 
The  conversation  was  confined  mainly  to  the 
two  men,  and  Roswell  seemed  to  lead  it  into 
channels  where  it  was  difficult  for  Duncan 
to  follow,  while  the  familiarity  her  husband 


292  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

showed  with  the  great  questions  of  current 
interest  was  astonishing  to  Marion.  She  had 
spent  so  little  time  with  him  that  she  was 
unfamiliar  with  his  tastes,  and  the  keenness 
with  which  he  argued,  together  with  the  deli 
cate  manner  in  which  he  seemed  to  lay  bare 
Duncan's  ignorance,  surprised  her  greatly. 

Marion  was  glad  to  be  a  listener,  as  it  gave 
her  time  to  think.  She  seemed  to  be  seized 
now  with  a  dispassionate  calmness,  which 
permitted  her  to  view  her  actions  in  a  way 
she  had  never  done  before.  The  subtle  spell 
which  had  bound  her  to  Duncan  seemed  fast 
breaking,  and  although  scarce  an  hour  before 
she  had  been  ready  to  confess  to  him  the  full 
warmth  of  her  love,  she  now  appeared  to  be 
at  a  great  distance  from  him  and  looking 
at  the  past  as  in  the  pages  of  some  book. 
Again  and  again  she  glanced  toward  him  and 
wondered  why  he  seemed  so  changed.  She 
observed  that  he  was  drinking  too  much  wine, 
and  when  he  occasionally  raised  his  glass  and 
cast  an  insinuating  glance  toward  her,  she 
felt  the  spirit  of  resentment  grow  stronger 
and  stronger.  She  asked  herself  if  his  power 
of  fascination  had  gone,  and  she  confessed 


A  GAME   OF  SKILL.  293 

that  in  the  society  of  others,  at  least,  he  was 
not  the  same  as  when  alone  with  her.  Then 
she  thought  over  the  words  which  he  had 
spoken  to  her,  and  how  in  his  presence  she 
nad  felt  the  subtle  inspiration  of  a  love 
vvhich,  it  seemed  to  her,  must  burn  forever. 
She  looked  up  to  see  if  she  could  feel  the 
power  his  grey  eyes  had  so  often  exerted 
over  her,  and  she  saw  an  angry  blush  come  to 
his  cheek.  Roswell  had  called  forth  a  con 
fession  of  ignorance  on  a  delicate  point  of 
finance.  Duncan  was  clever,  but  he  was  not 
a  deep  student,  and  he  often  found  himself 
at  a  loss  for  facts  with  which  to  substantiate 
his  theories.  He  spoke  a  resentful  word  or 
two,  and  Marion  thought  it  was  unmanly  for 
him  to  lose  his  temper. 

The  dinner  wore  on,  and  Marion  found 
herself  becoming  more  and  more  critical  of 
Duncan's  actions.  She  wondered  if  he  were 
the  man  for  whom,  two  hours  before,  she  had 
been  willing  to  venture  everything.  She 
began  to  analyze  her  feelings  of  the  past  six 
months,  and  she  asked  herself  if  the  feeling 
he  inspired  was,  after  all,  the  love  that  her 
nature  craved.  Perhaps  her  doubts  were 


294  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

momentary  and  would  vanish,  leaving  her 
again  the  prey  of  wild  desires.  Yet  she  felt 
that  her  nature  could  not  be  so  vacillating. 
She  looked  at  Duncan  again  to  reassure  her 
self.  Was  he  her  ideal?  He  leaned  his 
elbows  on  the  table  and  made  a  noise  as  he 
ate.  She  wondered  why  she  had  not  noticed 
this  before,  for  she  abhorred  carelessness  of 
manners. 

"So  you  think  a  leisure  class  is  what  we 
need  in  the  West,"  Roswell  was  saying  as  Fran- 
gois  removed  the  plates  after  the  game  course. 
Marion  had  always  felt  this  lack  to  be  one 
of  the  evils  of  Western  life,  and  she  looked 
to  Duncan  for  a  defense  of  her  theory. 

"Yes,"  answered  Duncan.  "I  favor  a  landed 
class  who  spend  their  money  freely  and  devote 
their  time  to  something  beside  grubbing  for 
dollars." 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,"  said  Roswell. 
"We  men  in  the  West  live  at  too  rapid  a 
pace.  In  the  ceaseless  toil  after  money  we 
become  callous  to  the  finer  sentiments  of  life." 
Marion  looked  up  in  astonishment.  She  had 
thought  her  husband  irredeemably  absorbed 
in  business.  "We  devote  too  little  time,"  he 


A  GAME   OF  SKILL.  295 

continued,  "to  the  development  of  the  aes 
thetic  side  of  our  natures.  I  think  we  should 
have  more  people  of  wealth  whose  time  is 
spent  in  fostering  the  arts;  but  as  for  men 
of  absolute  leisure,  I  think  we  are  better  off 
without  them." 

"There  I  can't  agree  with  you,"  answered 
Duncan,  "if  among  men  of  leisure  you  include 
those  whose  lives  are  given  to  sport.  Look 
at  the  sportsmen  of  England.  We  want  more 
of  that  sort  in  this  country.  A  hard  riding 
set  of  men  who  stick  at  nothing.  Such  a  life 
as  they  lead  makes  men  of  them." 

Marion  was  too  fond  of  literature  and  the 
arts  to  agree  with  Duncan.  She  had  known 
some  of  these  hunting  men  and  she  had  a 
small  opinion  of  their  talents. 

"In  a  degree  I  approve  of  your  sentiments," 
said  her  husband.  "If  you  will  eliminate  the 
taste  for  drink,  cards,  and  vice  from  your 
sportsmen.  Give  him  some  brains  and  make 
him  a  useful  member  of  society,  who  devotes 
much  of  his  time  to  the  improvement  of  his 
tenantry,  and  I  grant  you  that  his  counter 
part  would  be  a  desirable  acquisition  to  Amer 
ican  life." 


296  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

"So  you  don't  believe  in  the  reckless  sports 
man  of  the  old  school." 

"No,   I  confess  I  don't." 

"Why,  may  I  ask?" 

"I  think  I  can  best  answer  that  question  by 
telling  you  an  anecdote.  I  was  once  in  North 
Carolina  looking  after  some  property.  The 
place  where  I  was  staying  was  one  of  the  lit 
tle  villages  in  the  mountains  where  the  advent 
of  a  stranger  is  a  matter  of  momentous  im 
portance.  I  happened  to  be  in  the  village 
store  one  day  when  one  of  those  tweed-and- 
knickerbocker  Englishmen,  who  occasionally 
go  there  for  shooting,  walked  in  to  purchase 
some  powder.  After  he  had  received  his 
package  and  was  about  to  leave,  the  lean- 
faced  cracker  store-keeper  detained  him  in 
conversation  somewhat  after  this  fashion: 

"'Be  you  from  Noo  York,  stranger?' 

"The  Englishman  shook  his  head. 

"'Philadelphy?' 

"'No/  was  the  reply. 

"'Chicago?' 

"Another  negative  answer. 

"'Waal,  where  be  you  from?' 

"  'London. ' 


A  GAME    OF  SKILL.  297 

"'Whew!  and  the  cracker  gave  a  long 
whistle.  'What  brought  you  all  the  way  from 
London  to  Loneville?' 

"  'I  came  to  amuse  myself. ' 

"'Ter  amuse  yerself,  heh !  Well,  that  is 
mighty  curious.  What  d'  you  do  when  you're 
to  home? ' 

"'Nothing.' 

"'How  d'  you  live,  anyway? 

"  'My  father  supports  me. ' 

"'Don't  do  nothing  when  you're  to  home, 
and  yer  father  keeps  ye  ? ' 

"'Yes.' 

"'Waal,  I'd  like  to  ask  ye  jest  one  more 
question.  What  'ud  you  do '  f  your  father 
should  bust?' 

"That  is  my  theory.  I  don't  think  any 
man  should  be  brought  up  in  such  a  way 
that  he  would  have  nothing  to  fall  back  on 
if  his  wealth  should  fail  him.  Give  every 
young  man  an  employment  of  some  sort,  no 
matter  how  rich  he  may  be,  and  he  will  know 
what  to  do  when  his  father  'busts'." 

Marion,  somehow,  found  herself  agreeing 
with  her  husband's  views.  His  ideas  had  al 
ways  seemed  so  restricted  before.  She  won 
dered  why  he  was  becoming  so  sensib 


298  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

Frangois  cleared  the  table  and  changed  the 
glasses;  the  coffee  was  brought  and  Duncan 
and  Roswell  lighted  their  cigars.  Marion  us 
ually  remained  during  the  smoking  when  the 
party  was  small,  so  the  talk  went  on  uninter 
ruptedly,  Roswell  continuing  his  easy  flow  of 
anecdote  and  argument,  and  turning  the  con 
versation  as  one  subject  after  another  was 
suggested  to  his  mind.  Marion  caught  her 
self  occasionally  looking  at  her  husband  with 
a  feeling  of  admiration,  and  wondered  why 
she  had  never  before  discovered  his  charm  of 
manner.  She  felt  that  he  occasionally  turned 
his  keen  eyes  toward  her  as  though  he  under 
stood  her  thoughts,  and  she  was  afraid  that 
he  might  be  able  to  see  her  heart. 

"I  read  a  case  in  the  paper  this  morning 
which  impressed  me  sadly,"  said  Roswell,  put 
ting  down  his  empty  coffee  cup.  "I  knew  the 
people  and  it  seemed  but  the  outcome  of  my 
fears." 

"What  was  it?"  asked  Marion. 

"The  wife  of  a  man  I  have  known  in  busi 
ness  has  left  him.  The  husband  went  to 
Decatur  on  Thursday,  and  when  he  returned 
he  found  that  she  had  fled  the  night  before 
with  her  music  teacher." 


A   GAME    OF  SKILL.  299 

"It  was  probably  a  good  riddance,  wasn't 
it,"  said  Duncan. 

Marion  thought  these  words  unnecessarily 
harsh  and  she  found  herself  looking  appeal- 
ingly  at  Roswell  for  a  charitable  reply. 

"I  can't  say  that,"  replied  Roswell.  "The 
trouble  was  that  they  had  nothing  in  com 
mon.  He  was  a  man  who  began  life  as  a 
page  on  the  Board  of  Trade.  By  careful 
attention  to  business  he  worked  his  way  up 
until  he  is  now  a  very  successful  broker.  He 
has,  however,  absolutely  no  social  position, 
and  no  prospect  of  attaining  one.  When, 
two  years  ago,  he  went  East,  and  married  a 
girl  who  belonged  to  a  good  Syracuse  family 
and  brought  her  West,  it  must  have  been  a 
bitter  disappointment  to  the  young  wife  to 
find  herself  denied  the  recognition  which  she 
was  accustomed  to  receive  at  home.  She  was 
alone  in  a  strange  city.  Her  husband  was 
away  most  of  the  time,  and  he  was  so  com 
pletely  wrapped  up  in  business  that  his  wife 
was  left  to  her  own  resources.  Can  you  con 
demn  her  entirely  for  doing  as  she  did?  It 
is  all  very  well  to  behave  if  we  have  never 
been  tempted,  when,  perhaps,  under  the  same 


300  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

circumstances,  we  might  act  no  better  our 
selves.  For  my  part  I  think  the  husband  is 
probably  as  much  at  fault  as  the  wife." 

Marion  felt  her  heart  leap  with  gratitude 
when  she  heard  these  words.  Her  husband's 
voice  had  softened  as  he  spoke  them,  and  his 
eyes  wore  a  sad,  thoughtful  expression. 

"I  don't  think  you  are  right,"  said  Duncan, 
draining  a  glass  of  claret.  "No  one  but  a 
fool  will  permit  a  woman  to  go  astray  under 
his  eyes,  and  a  fool  deserves  to  lose  his 
wife." 

As  he  spoke  these  words  he  looked  toward 
Marion  with  an  insinuating  expression  which 
told  her  that  his  remark  was  directed  at  Ros- 
well,  and  that  he  expected  her  to  appreciate 
the  humor  of  it.  Marion  felt  a  sense  of 
thankfulness  rise  in  her  heart.  Coarseness 
never  could  appeal  to  her  sensitive  nature  and 
she  shuddered  when  she  thought  that  this 
was  the  man  for  whom  she  had  been  willing 
to  risk  her  honor.  She  was  beginning  to  find 
him  out.  Thank  heaven,  the  knowledge  came 
before  it  was  too  late. 

Roswell  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
said,  thoughtfully:  "Any  one  of  us  may  be 


A   GAME   OF  SKILL.  301 

cast  to  play  the  role  of  fool.  Unfortunately 
we  never  recognize  just  when  we  begin  to 
play  the  part.  I  used  to  think  as  you  do, 
Grahame.  It  is  only  lately  I  have  begun  to 
feel  that  it  takes  two  to  create  a  difference. 
Perhaps  I  am  wrong,  but  I  believe  that,  had 
my  friend  recognized  sooner  that  his  wife 
was  made  unhappy  by  his  own  neglect  and 
the  surroundings  in  which  he  placed  her,  the 
danger  might  have  been  averted." 

For  a  while  no  one  spoke.  Marion  gazed 
thoughtfully  at  the  table;  Duncan  twirled  a 
glass  carelessly  between  his  fingers  and  a 
smile  played  on  his  lips,  while  Roswell  silently 
puffed  his  cigar  and  watched  the  blue  wreaths 
of  smoke  curl  gently  upward. 

"Shall  we  go  into  the  next  room,  my  dear?" 
said  Roswell  after  a  moment,  dropping  his 
half-finished  cigar.  ''I  have  just  time  to  catch 
my  train." 

"You  are  not  going,  are  you  ?"  said  Marion, 
looking  up,  startled.  "Please  put  off  your 
trip,"  she  added  with  a  slight  tone  of  appeal 
in  her  voice. 

"I  must  go,"  he  answered,  rising  from  his 
chair. 


302  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

The  three  people  walked  toward  the  hall. 
As  they  reached  the  door,  Roswell  stopped 
and  motioned  Duncan  to  lead  the  way.  The 
younger  man  passed  out,  leaving  Marion  and 
her  husband  together.  Roswell  took  both  his 
wife's  hands  and  drew  her  toward  him. 

"I  must  leave  Grahame  with  you,  my  dear. 
Don't  mind  my  running  away.  It  is  busi 
ness  and  can't  be  helped." 

"Don't  go,  Roswell,"  pleaded  Marion,  and 
she  turned  her  head  away  so  that  he  could 
not  look  into  her  face. 

"I  must,  my  darling.  I  must,"  he  answered, 
and  she  felt  his  arms  about  her.  She  hid 
her  face  on  his  breast,  and,  ashamed  of  her 
unworthiness,  she  felt  afraid  to  be  left  alone. 
"Good-by,  dear,"  he  said,  and  kissed  her  ten 
derly  on  her  forehead.  They  walked  silently 
through  the  hallway  to  the  little  French 
room,  by  the  door.  They  found  Duncan 
there,  wandering  carelessly  about  examining 
the  ornaments.  Stepping  up  to  him,  Roswell 
put  out  his  hand  and  said  simply:  "I  must 
leave  you,  Grahame.  I  have  just  time  to 
catch  my  train.  Sit  here  and  finish  your 
cigar.  My  wife  will  do  her  best  to  amuse 
you." 


A   GAME   OF  SKILL.  303 

Duncan  muttered  a  word  of  parting  and 
Roswell  hurried  into  the  hallway.  Marion 
took  a  seat  in  the  farther  end  of  the  room 
and  gazed  thoughtfully  toward  the  door  where 
her  husband  had  left.  She  could  hear  him 
putting  on  his  coat  and  then  the  door  closed 
behind  him.  The  carriage  rolled  off,  and 
as  the  last  echo  of  the  wheels  died  away 
she  realized  that  she  was  alone  with  the 
man  who  had  played  such  a  strange  part  in 
her  life.  She  felt  brave  now.  The  danger 
was  past  and  her  only  thought  was  to  prove 
worthy  of  the  confidence  her  husband  had 
placed  in  her.  She  looked  at  Duncan,  won 
dering  what  his  first  move  would  be.  He 
took  a  few  steps  on  the  floor.  His  eyes 
seemed  to  sparkle  with  merriment.  "Well,  I 
must  say,"  he  said,  stopping  in  his  desultory 
wandering  and  plunging  his  hands  into  his 
pockets,  "that  husband  of  yours  is  the  most 
convenient  person  that  I  ever  came  across." 
Marion  cast  an  angry  glance  toward  him. 
All  the  resentment  in  her  nature  was  aroused 
by  these  coarse  words.  Her  dream  of  months 
had  vanished,  and  in  its  place  was  a  repul 
sive  reality. 


304  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

Duncan  came  toward  her  with  a  confident 
step  and  tried  to  take  her  hand.  Marion 
jumped  to  her  feet  and  pushed  him  back. 
"Don't  touch  me,"  she  cried. 

Duncan  laughed.  This  new-found  anger 
amused  him  and  he  did  not  believe  she  was 
in  earnest.  "Marion,  dearest,  we  are  alone," 
he  said  ardently.  "We  can  enjoy  our  love 
and  no  one  will  interrupt." 

He  made  another  movement  toward  her. 
She  drew  back  and  looked  defiantly  at  him. 

"I  hate  you,"  she  said.  "Can't  you  see 
that  I  hate  you." 

"Hate  is  the  first  step  to  love,"  answered 
Duncan,  still  amused  by  her  anger.  "Let  it 
fade  away  for  I  want  to  see  love  smile  from 
those  bewitching  eyes." 

Then  he  hesitated.  He  saw  anger  flashing 
from  her  dark  eyes  now,  but  he  could  not 
believe  that  he  had  lost  the  power  he  had 
so  lately  exerted  over  her,  and  he  fancied  that 
this  resentment  must  be  due  to  some  whim. 
"Do  you  forget  the  past,  dearest?  he  said 
coaxingly,  after  a  moment.  "Do  you  forget 
our  love  of  yesterday?" 

"The  unreasoning  fancy  of  a  moment  is 
not  love,"  answered  Marion  coldly. 


A   GAME   OF  SKILL.  305 

Duncan  saw  now  that  the  heart  which  he 
had  felt  so  confident  of  his  power  to  master 
had  slipped  from  his  grasp.  Still  the  thought 
that  so  emotional  a  nature  might  yet  be  con 
quered  by  appeal  prompted  him  to  say,  "What 
is  the  meaning  of  this  change  ?  Yesterday 
you  loved  me." 

"That  was  yesterday.  Much  may  happen 
in  a  day,  Mr.  Grahame." 

"Yes,"  smiled  Duncan  sarcastically,  drawing 
lines  on  the  floor  with  the  toe  of  his  boot. 
"In  a  day  one  may  learn  the  fickle  nature  of 
the  woman  one  is  foolish  enough  to  love." 

"Yes,  and  the  character  of  the  feeling  one 
was  foolish  enough  to  fancy  might  be  love." 
added  Marion. 

"Will  you  not  listen  to  me  ?"  he  answered. 
"Some  one  has  been  poisoning  your  mind 
against  me." 

Marion  felt  that  this  distasteful  interview 
must  end.  She  had  been  the  prey  of  too 
many  emotions  that  day  to  bear  up  much 
longer.  She  felt  a  desire  to  fly  away  some 
where  and  escape  from  this  man.  Sommon- 
ing  her  courage  she  looked  full  into  Duncan's 
face  and  said,  in  a  firm  voice:  "Mr.  Grahame, 
20 


306  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

I  will  not  be  insulted.  I  think  there  is  noth 
ing  more  to  be  said." 

The  color  rose  to  Duncan's  cheeks.  His 
pride  was  touched,  yet  deep  in  his  heart  he 
could  not  help  feeling  ashamed  of  his  own 
conduct.  Revenge  for  another  woman's  ac 
tions  had  prompted  him  to  act  the  part  he 
had  played,  and  there  was  still  manhood 
enough  in  his  callous  heart  to  make  him 
recognize  that  he  deserved  the  treatment  he 
was  receiving.  But  pride  prompted  him  to 
retreat  boldly.  "As  you  will,  Mrs.  Sander 
son,"  he  answered,  coolly  returning  Marion's 
glance.  "I  came  at  your  bidding  and  I  leave 
at  your  command.  I  had  been  led  to  be 
lieve,  by  your  actions  in  the  past,  that  I 
should  receive  a  more  responsive  welcome, 
but  I  acknowledge  my  mistake." 

"We  understand  each  other  perfectly,"  said 
Marion.  "Six  months  ago,  Mr.  Grahame,  you 
challenged  me  to  a  game  of  skill.  I  think 
you  know  the  game  well  enough  to  recognize 
that  you  have  lost." 

Duncan  nodded  assent  and  walked  slowly 
toward  the  door.  On  the  threshold  he  turned 
and  looked  at  Marion.  A  feeling  of  admira- 


A   GAME   OF  SKILL.  307 

tion  for  the  woman  he  had  so  misjudged 
prompted  him  to  speak  "Let  me  compli 
ment  your  skill,"  he  said.  "I  played  that 
game  with  the  assurance  of  an  old  hand  and 
I  lost.  You  were  a  novice,  but  you  won." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

IN   THE   LIBRARY. 

Roswell  Sanderson  was  in  the  library  writ 
ing.  A  week  had  passed  since  his  departure 
for  St.  Louis,  and  a  considerable  accumula 
tion  of  mail  was  absorbing  his  attention.  He 
had  arrived  home  that  morning  on  an  early 
train,  and  not  caring  to  awake  his  wife  had 
gone  into  the  library  to  look  over  his  letters. 
It  was  Sunday,  and  the  measured  patter  of 
the  raindrops  on  the  window-panes  seemed 
to  forebode  a  cheerless  day,  while  the  dismal 
light,  almost  obscured  by  the  lowering  clouds 
and  heavy  window  draperies,  produced  an  air 
of  gloom  intensified,  perhaps,  by  the  unusual 
chill  of  the  summer  atmosphere.  Roswell 
was  alone,  and  as  he  wrote  the  scratching  of 
his  pen  on  the  paper  blended  monotonously 
with  the  pattering  raindrops.  Perhaps  half 
an  hour  passed.  Marion  entered  the  room 
and  stood  for  a  moment  near  the  door. 
There  was  a  fresher  color  in  her  cheeks, 


IN  THE  LIBRARY.  309 

even  in  that  dim  light,  and  her  eyes  seemed 
to  have  lost  their  look  of  restless  longing. 
As  she  watched  her  husband  writing,  a  smile 
of  mingled  tenderness  and  sadness  came  to 
her  lips.  Then  she  walked  softly  on  tip-toe 
to  where  he  sat,  and  placed  her  hand  gently 
on  his  shoulder. 

Roswell  looked  up  startled.  "Why,  Marion," 
he  said,  "I  didn't  expect  to  see  you  so  early." 
Then,  leaving  his  seat,  he  took  both  his  wife's 
hands  in  his  and  kissed  her. 

"I  am  thankful  you  have  come  back,"  said 
Marion.  "I  have  wanted  you  so  much." 

She  placed  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and 
rested  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  There  had 
been  a  tenderness  in  her  voice  which  made 
Roswell's  heart  beat  faster  than  it  had  ever 
done  before.  "Yes,  dear,"  he  said,  "I  have 
come  back,  and  I  think  I  have  a  surprise  for 
you,  too." 

"A  surprise,"  said  Marion,  looking  up. 

"Yes.  Sit  down  and  I  will  tell  you  all 
about  it." 

Roswell  resumed  his  seat,  and  Marion  took 
a  low  stool  at  his  side  and  waited  for  him  to 
speak. 


310  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

"It  is  not  very  much,"  he  said,  taking  a 
letter  from  the  table,  "but  I  have  here  a  re 
fusal  of  the  Mcllvaine  cottage  at  Bar  Harbor 
for  the  season.  Would  you  like  to  go  there?" 

An  expression  of  astonishment  come  to 
Marion's  face.  "Is  this  true?"  she  asked. 

"I  am  only  waiting  for  you  to  say  yes 
before  sending  my  reply." 

"Why  did  you  do  this,  Roswell?"  she  said, 
with  a  tone  of  tenderness  in  her  voice. 

"Because  I  felt  it  would  be  better  for  both 
• 

of  us  to  go  away  this  summer.  I  am  work 
ing  too  hard,  I  think,  and  must  have  a  rest. 
But  that  is  only  a  selfish  reason;  I  feel  it 
would  do  you  good  to  be  among  new  people 
and  new  scenes." 

Marion  looked  into  his  eyes  a  moment  and 
a  dark  expression  of  disgust  came  across  her 
face.  "Why  don't  you  speak  the  truth,  Ros 
well?"  she  said.  "Why  don't  you  say  that  you 
are  going  away  because  your  wife  is  a  selfish 
woman  who  is  discontented  in  her  home; 
why  don't  you  say  that  she  is  a  wicked  creat 
ure  who  cares  for  nothing  but  her  own  amuse 
ment,  and  that  you  are  taking  her  where  she 
can  find  new  excitements?  Why  don't  you 


IN  THE  LIBRARY.  311 

say  this?"  she  repeated,  and  then  she  buried 
her  face  in  her  hands  and  sobbed. 

Roswell  leaned  forward  and  stroked  her 
head  softly.  "I  love  my  wife,"  he  said,  "and 
I  will  not  permit  you  to  say  such  things  about 
her." 

"You  don't  know  how  wicked  she  is;  you 
don't  know  how  black  her  heart  has  been," 
Marion  replied,  between  the  sobs.  "O,  Ros 
well,  I  shall  never  be  happy  till  I  tell  you 
all  about  it  and  ask  you  to  forgive  me.  I 
have  thought  it  over  every  moment  since 
you  left,  and  I  have  tried  to  feel  right  in  my 
heart,  but  I  can't  until  you  know  how  wicked 
I  have  been.  You  are  too  good  and  generous 
for  a  selfish  creature  like  me;  but  you  must 
know  that  I  have  been  untrue  to  you  in  my 
heart.  Roswell,  I  did  not  love  you  when  I 
married  you;  I  never  loved  you  until  a  week 
ago.  I  did  not  know  your  goodness  before, 
and  I  was  thoughtless.  O,  forgive  me,  Ros 
well;  forgive  me." 

Roswell  raised  her  head  until  he  could  look 
into  her  face.  "I  forgave  you  long  ago,  dear 
est,"  he  said,  "and  now  I  want  to  see  you  dry 
those  sweet  eyes.  I  guessed  your  trouble  last 


312  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

winter.  At  first  it  was  hard  for  me  to  bear, 
and  I  had  black  thoughts  in  my  heart,  too; 
but  when  I  remembered  how  I  had  been 
bound  up  in  my  musty  cash  books  and  ledg 
ers,  and  how  I  had  failed  to  enter  into  your 
life,  I  felt  I  had  no  right  to  reproach  you. 
I  saw  that  you  were  drifting  from  me,  and  I 
knew  the  fault  was  mine.  Then  I  prayed 
that  I  might  save  you  and  win  you  back 
again." 

"And  you  forgive  me,"  said  Marion,  sob 
bing  still. 

Roswell  kissed  her.  "It  is  I  who  must  be 
forgiven,"  he  said.  "I  ought  to  have  seen 
before  that  a  woman  like  you  could  not  love 
a  crusty  old  banker,  who  came  home  every 
night  covered  with  the  dust  of  the  office. 
I  am  a  rough  fellow  who  needs  a  lot  of  pol 
ishing  up,  but  I  want  you  to  try  and  see  what 
you  can  make  of  me,  and  I  want  your  love." 

"My  darling,"  said  Marion.  "I  love  you 
as  I  never  knew  I  could  love.  I  thought  the 
wild  fancy  of  the  moment  was  love,  but  I 
have  learned  my  mistake.  If  you  will  take 
me  into  your  heart  again  I  will  try  so  hard 
to  make  you  a  good  wife." 


IN  THE  LIBRARY.  313 

A  faint  sunbeam  came  through  the  eastern 
window  and  glanced  feebly  along  the  floor; 
then  it  grew  stronger  and  stronger,  until  the 
gloomy  library  was  brightened  by  a  flood  of 
rich,  warm  sunlight.  The  storm  had  ceased. 
The  clouds  had  rolled  away. 

"It  takes  some  such  trial  as  ours,"  Roswell 
said,  "to  call  forth  love.  We  know  now  how 
necessary  we  are  to  each  other,  don't  we, 
dear?" 

The  look  of  sweet  tenderness  in  Marion's 
eyes  gave  him  his  answer. 

"Let  us  think  no  more  of  those  days,  my 
darling,"  said  Roswell,  throwing  his  arms 
about  his  wife  and  drawing  her  closer  to 
his  side.  "We  will  forget  the  past  and  live 
in  the  future.  What  answer  shall  I  send 
about  the  cottage?"  As  he  said  this  he 
reached  toward  the  table  to  get  the  letter. 
Marion's  eyes  followed  his  hand,  and  they 
fell  upon  a  name  signed  to  a  note  lying 
there. 

"That  man!"  she  cried,  turning  her  head 
away  and  hiding  her  face  on  Roswell's 
shoulder. 

"That  man  will   worry   you    no    more,"  he 


314  WITH  EDGE    TOOLS. 

said,  taking    up    the    note.     "Read    what    he 
says." 

Marion  took  the  paper  and  read : 

"DEAR  MR.  SANDERSON: 

"I  wish  to  say  that  I  have  obtained  the 
loan  I  required  from  the  'Grocers'  National,' 
so  I  shall  not  need  to  keep  my  appointment 
with  you.  I  leave  for  New  York  to-day,  and 
shall  be  unable  to  see  you  on  your  return  from 
St.  Louis.  Thanking  you  for  your  kindness  to 
me  while  in  Chicago,  believe  me,  with  kindest 

regards, 

"Yours  faithfully, 

"June  29.  DUNCAN  GRAHAME." 

Marion  shuddered  as  she  put  down  the 
note.  It  told  its  story  and  she  felt  that 
there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said. 

"This  is  the  letter  I  want  you  to  answer," 
said  Roswell,  taking  up  the  one  from  Bar 
Harbor. 

Marion  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  floor  a 
moment,  then,  glancing  up,  she  said:  "If  you 
don't  mind,  dear,  I  should  like  to  go  to  some 
quieter  place.  I  have  had  excitements  before, 
but  I  have  never  had  my  husband,  and  I 
want  him  all  to  myself." 

"My  darling,"  said  Roswell. 


IN  THE  LIBRARY.  315 

Florence  entered  the  room  and  stood  for 
a  moment  near  the  door.  At  first  she  was 
too  surprised  to  speak,  then,  appreciating  the 
propriety  of  making  her  presence  known, 
she  retreated  a  few  steps  and  said:  "May  I 
come  in?" 

"Of  course  you  may,  you  dear  girl,"  said 
Marion,  looking  up.  "You  may  come  in  and 
find  the  happiest  woman  in  the  world.  Don't 
look  surprised.  Roswell  and  I  are  young 
lovers,  and  we  are  laying  plans  for  our  honey 
moon.  I  don't  deserve  my  happiness,  but  I 
have  just  discovered  that  I  have  the  best 
husband  in  the  world." 

Florence  ran  to  Marion's  side  and  kissed 
her.  "Let  me  share  your  joy,"  she  said. 

That  evening  Harold  Wainwright  dined  at 
the  Sandersons,  and  four  happy  people  seated 
themselves  at  the  little,  round  table.  The 
candles  shed  the  same  cheerful  light  upon 
the  white  linen  and  the  glistening  plate,  and 
Francois  moved  from  place  to  place  with  his 
wonted  precision;  but  the  fire  of  love  had 
kindled  on  the  hearth,  and  in  that  home  a 
new  life  had  begun. 

THE   END. 


MRS.   ABBOTT'S   BOOKS. 

I. 

ALEXIA. 

By  MARY  ABBOTT.     i2tno.     Price,  75  cents. 

We  have  rarely  found  a  more  perfectly  idyllic  little  love  story  than 
this  — The  Living  Church,  Chicago. 

The  story  is  told  with  such  an  airy  touch,  such  a  fine  sense  of 
humor,  such  delicate  crispness,  that  the  reader  is  dealt  little  shocks  of 
pleasure  at  every  successive  sentence. — Evening  Post,  Chicago. 

Little  books  like  this,  unpretentious,  honest  in  motive,  pure  in 
sentiment,  and  marked  by  true  sympathy  are  not  common  in  current 
American  literature,  and  therefore  appeal  all  the  more  strongly  to 
people  who  are  tired  of  the  didactic,  and  so  relish  keenly  any  repre 
sentation  which  depends  for  its  final  effect  not  on  preconceived 
notions  of  the  author,  but  on  fidelity  to  life. —  The  Beacon,  Boston. 


II. 

THE  BEVERLEYS, 

A  Story  of  Calcutta. 

By  MARY  ABBOTT.     i2mo.     Price,  $1.25. 

As  a  story  of  character  it  is  of  high  and  rare  merit.  Every  person 
who  appears  in  it  is  outlined  with  a  distinctness  of  individuality  which 
cannot  be  mistaken.—  The  Churchman,  New  York. 

"  The  Beverleys"  is  one  of  the  notable  novels  of  the  year.  .  .  .  The 
writer  knows  life  and  has  met  people  of  breeding.  ...  In  Eileen  she 
draws  a  charming-  creature  whose  social  adventures  in  Calcutta  will  be 
read  with  unflagging-  interest. —  The  Philadelphia  Press. 

To  have  read  "Alexia"  is  to  feel  a  kindly  predisposition  towards 
the  successor  of  that  charming  little  book.  "The  Beverleys"  has  fol 
lowed  it,  and  it  is  perhaps  unreasonable  to  be  disappointed  at  missing- 
in  a  novel  the  wild-rose  perfume  of  the  story.  It  is  a  novel  clever  in 
form  and  style,  and  in  its  portraits  from  Calcutta  society.  The  moods 
and  fascinations  of  the  wild  Irish  girl  and  the  labyrinths  of  her  naughty 
heart  are  prettily  described ;  there  are  pungent  observations  on  men, 
women,  and  manners  a  plenty;  what  more  would  one  have. —  The 
Nation,  New  York.  

Sold  by  all  booksellers,  or  mailed,  on  receipt  of  price,  by 
A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS, 

COR.  WABASH  AVE.  AND  MADISON  ST.,  CHICAGO. 


MONK  AND  KNIGHT 

Bn  Historical  StuDg  in  fiction. 

BY  THE  REV,  DR.  F.  W.  GUNSAULUS. 

Two  Vols.    12mo,  707  pages.    Price,  $2.50. 


This  work  is  one  that  challenges  attention  for  its  ambitious  char 
acter  and  its  high  aim.  It  is  an  historical  novel, — or,  rather,  as  the 
author  prefers  to  call  it,  "An  Historical  Study  in  Fiction."  It  is  the 
result  of  long  and  careful  study  of  the  period  of  which  it  treats,  and 
hence  is  the  product  of  genuine  sympathies  and  a  freshly-fired  imagi 
nation.  The  field  is  Europe,  and  the  period  is  the  beginning  of  the 
sixteenth  century,— a  time  when  the  fading  glow  of  the  later  Renais 
sance  is  giving  place  to  the  brighter  glories  of  the  dawning  Reforma 
tion. 

The  book  deals,  in  a  broad  sense,  with  the  grand  theme  of  the 
progress  of  intellectual  liberty.  Many  of  its  characters  are  well-known 
historical  personages, — such  as  Erasmus,  Sir  Thomas  Moore,  Cardinal 
Wolsey,  Henry  VIII.  of  England,  Francis  I.  of  France,  the  disturbing 
monk  Martin  Luther,  and  the  magnificent  Pope  Leo  X.;  other  charac 
ters  are  of  course  fictitious,  introduced  to  give  proper  play  to  the 
author's  fancy  and  to  form  a  suitable  framework  for  the  story. 

Interwoven  with  the  more  solid  fabric  are  gleaming  threads  of 
romance;  and  bright  bits  of  description  and  glows  of  sentiment  relieve 
the  more  sombre  coloring.  The  memorable  meeting  of  the  French  and 
English  monarchs  on  the  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold,  with  its  gorgeous 
pageantry  of  knights  and  steeds  and  silken  banners,  and  all  the  glitter 
and  charm  of  chivalry,  furnish  material  for  several  chapters,  in  which 
the  author's  descriptive  powers  are  put  to  the  severest  test;  while  the 
Waldensian  heroes  in  their  mountain  homes,  resisting  the  persecutions 
of  their  religious  foes,  afford  some  thrilling  and  dramatic  situations. 


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A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS, 

COR.  WABASH  AVE.  AND  MADISON  ST.,  CHICAGO. 


AN  ICELAND  FISHERMAN 

BY  PIERRE  LOTI 

'Translated  from  the  French 

BY  ANNA   FARWELL  DE  KOVEN. 

i2mo.     252  pages.     $1.00. 


"An  Iceland  Fisherman  "  is  really  a  poem  in  prose.  It  has  a  pure 
idyllic  quality  so  unlike  most  of  the  work  which  now  comes  from 
French  hands  that  one  must  go  back  to  "  Paul  and  Virginia"  to  find  a 
worthy  companion  volume.  Other  French  writers,  George  Sand 
notably,  have  written  idyllic  chapters,  but  "An  Iceland  Fisherman"  is 
a  complete  idyl  from  beginning  to  end.  M.  Loti  is  an  impressionist  of 
the  most  delicate  quality.  He  feels  with  the  keenest  sensibility  the 
moods  and  phases  of  each  passing  hour.  In  this  little  volume  one  is 
made  aware  of  all  the  strange,  lonely  beauty  and  terror  of  the  North 
Seas.  Few  writers  have  made  so  keen  an  observation  of  those  elusive 
phases  through  which  sky  and  sea  pass  in  a  day  or  a  season,  and  still 
fewer  have  had  the  faculty  of  transferring  these  subtle  things  into 
speech. —  The  Christian  Union,  New  York. 

The  translator  of  this  remarkable  story  has  done  her  work  wonder 
fully  well.  Her  choice  of  words,  apt,  pat,  and  picturesque— words 
which  instantly  appeal  to  the  imagination,  is  skillful  to  an  uncommon 
degree.  This  is  no  doubt  partly  due  to  the  characteristics  of  the 
original.  Whatever  may  be  true  of  the  French,  the  English  of  this 
beautiful  and  wholesome  story  is  wonderfully  idiomatic  and  good.— The 
Advance,  Chicago. 

Of  the  story  itself  nothing  can  well  be  too  good  to  say.  We  pity 
the  one  who  can  read  it  without  being  deeply  stirred  by  its  simple, 
pathetic,  and,  at  moments,  solemn  beauty. —  The  Chicago  Evening 
Journal. 

It  is  a  gem  of  the  purest  ray,  a  lovely  idyl,  whose  strength  is  drawn 
from  what  is  best  in  human  life. —  The  Philadelphia  Enquirer. 


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THE  STORY  OF  TONTY. 

AN   HISTORICAL    ROMANCE. 

By  Mrs.  MARY  HARTWELL  CATHERWOOD. 
I2tno,  224  pages.     Price,  $1.25. 


"  The  Story  of  Tonty"  is  eminently  a  Western  story,  beginning  at 
Montreal,  tarrying  at  Fort  Frontenac,  and  ending  at  the  old  fort  at 
Starved  Rock,  on  the  Illinois  River.  It  weaves  the  adventures  of  the 
two  great  explorers,  the  intrepid  La  Salle  and  his  faithful  lieutenant, 
Tonty,  into  a  tale  as  thrilling  and  romantic  as  the  descriptive  portions 
are  brilliant  and  vivid.  It  is  superbly  illustrated  with  twenty-three 
masterly  drawings  by  Mr.  Enoch  Ward. 

Such  tales  as  this  render  service  past  expression  to  the  cause  of 
history.  They  weave  a  spell  in  which  old  chronicles  are  vivified  and 
breathe  out  human  life.  Mrs.  Catherwood,  in  thus  bringing  out 
from  the  treasure-houses  of  half-forgotten  historical  record  things  new 
and  old,  has  set  herself  one  of  the  worthiest  literary  tasks  of  her  genera 
tion,  and  is  showing  herself  finely  adequate  to  its  fulfillment. —  Tran 
script :,  Boston. 

A  powerful  story  by  a  writer  newly  sprung  to  fame.  .  .  .  All 
the  century  we  have  been  waiting  for  the  deft  hand  that  could  put 
flesh  upon  the  dry  bones  of  our  early  heroes.  Here  is  a  recreation 
indeed.  .  .  .  One  comes  from  the  reading  of  the  romance  with 
a  quickened  interest  in  our  early  national  history,  and  a  profound 
admiration  for  the  art  that  can  so  transport  us  to  the  dreamful  realms 
where  fancy  is  monarch  of  fact.—  Press,  Philadelphia. 

u  The  Story  of  Tonty  "is  full  of  the  atmosphere  of  its  time.  It 
betrays  an  intimate  and  sympathetic  knowledge  of  the  great  age  of 
explorers,  and  it  is  altogether  a  charming  piece  of  work.— Christian 
Union,  New  York. 

Original  in  treatment,  in  subject,  and  in  all  the  details  of  mise  en 
scene,  it  must  stand  unique  among  recent  romances.—  News,  Chicago. 

A  vivid  series  of  fascinating  pictures.—  New  York  Observer. 


Sold  by  all  booksellers,  or  mailed,  on  receipt  of  price,  by 
A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS, 

COR.  WABASH  AVE.  AND  MADISON  ST.,  CHICAGO. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

RENEWED  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  IMMEDIATE 
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LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

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